Skip to main content

Full text of "The Yale literary magazine"

See other formats


This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 






• • • 

« » 


■ * • • 

• • 

• • 

» ^ »i 



1)0 1 time Qtvtntttnti). 

Aboriginal MoDuments of the Mississippi Yallej, 16 

Absolute Power, 18 

A Bay Dream Among the Hills, 21 

A Graduate's ReminisceDce, ... * 139 

A Poser for Linguists, 102, 12*7 

A Romance of the Laboratory, 66 

A Smile, 188 

Autographs, 146 

A Voice of Praise from All, 126 

Award of the Yale Literary Premium, 120 

A Winter's Visit to the CatskUls S09 

Birds of Passage, 18 

Boat Song, 217 

Books and Their Covers 244 

Centralization, (Townsend Prize Essay,) 248 

Clark Prize Essay, 801 

College Boating, 216 

Collegiate Education in the West, 179 

College Life, 204 

Dorylla, 61 

Down East and Out Westj 174 

Editors' Farewell, 286 

Editor's Table, .... 88, 80, 113, 168, 199, 281, 276, 819, 367 

Essay on Sleep, 68 

Festus 219 

FiU a Cup to the Past, 178 

Forest Leaves, 128 

.Geometry, 6 

Great Days, 289 

Holiday Walk, 81 

Hortonse, 248 

Insincerity in College, its Cause and Cure, 209 

Junior Year, 60 

Letters, 171 

"Letters Home," 26 

Ligbtk 806 


Litemry Notice, 190 

Lathers* Saddt-st Expprirace, lil 

Memorabilia Yaleu>. ^ 29, 77, 110, U9. 190, 224. 270, 31f, SU 

liistakeo Philanthropy, 161 

MiBtakes, SH 

New Haven Harbor, It 

New PubUcations, 112,157 

Night, (Townsend Prise Poem,) 

Notice to Contributurs, 82^ S59 

Oda, (Ad Amicum.) 

Oda, (Aorea Opportunitas,) 

Ode to Pastoral Romance, SSf 

Our Confessional, 

•Periit,*' Mt 

Phonography, ............ IWf- 

Profl Silliman's Tour, ft 

Bainy Days in College, Mf 

Becipe for a Chemical Lecture, lOt 

Bong of the Sailor, 827 

Territorial Extension, 1 ^ 

That Morning Bell, 9t 

The Antiquary, 8Si 

The Claims of Yale College to the Regard of its Students, ... 41 

The Deacon's Plunge, 848 

The Dying Poet, 10 

The Evening of the Massacre, 277 

The Harp of the Winds, 69 

The Household of Sir Thomas More, 800 ^ 

The Lament of the Hungarian Exiles, 218 -j 

The Maiden Listening to the Murmur of the Shell, .... 247 '' 

The Moral Element in True Greatness, (Townsend Prize Essays,) . 298, 880 

The National Observatory, 184 

Tlie Pleasures and Duties of Co11e&[e Life, 96 

The Political Influence of Towns and Cities, (Townsend Prize Essay,) • 886 

The Things which Life is Like, 91 

Tlie Undine of Fouque, 166 

The Young Dreamer, 800 

The Writers of the Elizabethean Age, 24 

The * Yale Lit,' 201 

llionghts on Naturalization, 266 

To Our Beaders, 287 

Translation ef Anacreon^s Ode " To the Bose," 844 

YtlentiDet, 188 

tale, 88 

Yak Literary Prise Sseay, vlJM 



Vol. XVII. OCTOBER, 1851. No. I. 

Strritorial (Sxttmitm. 

Upon the question of Territorial Extension, tliere are at present in 
OUT ODnntry several parties entertaining different views. One party we 
nay, for the sake of distinction, call the Manifest Destiny party. They 
hold that the Anglo Saxon race is destined to progress until it swallows 
Vf all other races. So wild are their views that they are ready to plunge 
oor. nation into war with any otlier nation which pretends to dispute 
ibfiir divine right to rule. All projects for the extension of territory, 
luwover dishonorahle to us as a nation, they cloak by their ^^ Manifest 

^Rth such a class we do not take issue. AVitli those who disregard 
d tlie considerations of justice, who lay aside all regard for the law of 
MtioM, and the faith of treaties, we would have nothing to do. We can 
oiAj console ourselves, when we view the results of their mad schemes, 
Voh the reflection, that beneficial effects sometimes flow from causes 
which would seem to produce the opposite. We can say 

** Not but wat abstract war is horrid, 
I sign to that with oil my hart 
But civlyxation doos git forrid 
Sometimes upon a powder cart"* 

Another class there is who propose to extend our country's limits 

southward only. The object of these is easily seen. They desire not 

the extension of territory as such, but only the enlargement of the area 

of human bondage. The events of the past Ave or six years have fully 

' obown this to be their aim, for the same party which most strongly 

* Biglow Papers. 


urged the annexation of Texas was the party most bitterly opposed to 
the admission of California as a free State. But California came in and 
the " Slavery Extensionists" were caught in their own trap. Among 
these two classes are to be found those of our countrymen who lately 
invaded the possessions of a foreign power on terms of amity with the 
United States. They are reaping the bitter fruits of their respective doc- 

A third class are those who are opposed unqualifiedly to any and all 
extension of our territory. Such maintain that our country is large 
enough as it is — ^that were territory to be had for the asking, we ought 
not to take it — ^that we had better turn our attention to improving what 
we have, to developing our resources, to bettering the condition of the 
masses, than to be engaged in projects for national aggrandizement. 
This class embraces a large and by no means unimportant portion of the 
community. Much of the wealth, the learning, the intelligence, the 
morality and the religion of the country are to be found in its ranks. 

It is to this class that we would speak for a few moments. We would 
ask in reference to what might be said about the development of our 
resources, Are not the resources of this country in as much greater 
state of development than they were at the time of the Revolution, as our 
country is larger ? Have not science and the arts, literature and educa- 
tion advanced equally with our territorial limits ? In short, has not civili- 
zation kept pace with territorial extension ? We think the most conserva- 
tive must admit this. 

Let us at this point answer a few objections which this class usually 
bring against territorial extension. 

The case of Rome is often cited as an argument against this policy. 

Whenever any project for the annexation of any particular territory 
has been before the people, the opposers of the measure, whether for party 
purposes or from patriotic motives, have portrayed in vivid colors the 
downfall of Rome. Orators and poets have waxed eloquent in their de- 
scriptions of her ruin. Divines have invoked the vengeance of heaven 
upon any who would bring the like catastrophe on us. Newspaper 
scribblers have vilified and abused the administration which would favor 
such a project, likening the leaders to ambitious Csesars, and the subor- 
dinates to their underlings. 

All, from the statesman in the Senate Chamber to the man who " does 
the politics" for the meanest seven-by-nine weekly, have attempted to 
show from the example of Rome that we in our giant strides for power 
will overstep the bounds of reason and sink to rise no more. 


It is urged, to speak more seriously, that because the ancient Romans, 
by extending their domain brought on the ruin of the Empire, the Re- 
public of the United States will in like manner fall to pieces if it pursues 
alike course. 

The fallacy in this is in supposing a parellelism to exist between the 
two cases, whereas in truth they are totally different. 

Rome was at first a municipal corporation, then an empire of cities 
held together partly by a spirit of despotism infused into the people by 
the hnperial Government, partly by a sort of chain-work of functionaries 
spread over them, and partly by a powerful military system.* JSTever at 
any stage of its progress was it any thing at all approaching to a federa- 
tire system. 

It will be necessary then for those who adduce the case of Rome as 
argument against the extension of territory, to prove that the self-same 
causes which have conspired to the overthrow of extended military des- 
potism will work the downfall of extended republicanism. 

Again, it is said by the opposers of territorial extension that if our 
country is extended it will soon fall to pieces from mere extension. To 
support this assertion they unfortunately bring forward the illustration of 
aa extended beam breaking by its own weight. Unfortunately we say, 
for if we rightly understand the matter, a beam is not weakened if, as its 
coda are extended, a proportionate increase is made to the central parts. 
^ow tiiifl is precisely the case with our country. Whenever our territorial 
touts are extended, a proportional increase of representation is made in 
the central government 

His illustration then, it will be seen, can be used with greater force by 
the supporters of territorial extension than its opposers. 

We would notice a third objection. A want of nationality is often 
. attributed to people of an extended country. A difference in manners 
*id customs, diversity of pursuits, of institutions, of thoughts, feelings 
*id actions, it is said, render it impossible that such a people should be 
W16 in heart In answer to this we would ask. Are not the people of 
these thirty-one States as much one people to day, as were the people of 
tflfi old thirteen States in 1776 ? We have only to place ourselves in 
^cumstances somewhat similar to those of former days to answer this 
^I'wstion. Suppose a powerful foreign force were to invade our territory, 
^xnatter for what purpose ; but to make the parallel stronger, let it be for 
^® purpose of taking away our liberties and reducing us to a state of vas- 
^•^pe or colonial dependence — would not tlie old altar fires of freedom 

* Guizot's History of Civilijsation. 


be kindled anew throughout the length and breadth of the land f Would 
not the same great principles which the &thers defended, be defended Ij 
the sons, and with equal success too ? No answer but an afiftrmatiye one 
can be returned to such questions as these. Were a British army about 
to disembark at Boston, the electric wires would scatter the tidings tu 
and near, and from the pines of Maine, from the prairies of Iowa, from 
ihe everglades of Florida, yes, could the news reach them, from the gold 
mines of California, would come up those who would account it their high- 
est glory to wet with their blood the soil made holy by the blood of 
their fathers. 

But evidences of a oneness of spirit in the hearts of the American 
people can be found in the occurrences of actual life. The late war with 
Mexico affords a prool^ and we may add a melancholy proof^ of this unity 
of which we speak. Although it was begun contrary to the wishes of 
many, perhaps the majority, still when we were fairly engaged in it, all 
parties combined to prosecute it to a successful issue. And when peace 
was at last obUdned, it was hailed, with scarce a th6ught of the terms^ by 
all the country alike. 

Another proof is afforded from a source entirely different, where n&r 
ther our country's liberties were in danger, nor the reputation of her 
arms at stake. We refer to the triumph of the yacht America. An 
interesting contest has been going on for some time between England 
and the United States, both in steamships and in sailing vessels, and in 
the partial triumph of the former and the complete triumph of the latter, 
every American feels an honest pride of country. He feels a stronger 
attachment to his native land, and a deeper love for those who with him 
are its citizens. 

But further proof of unity of feeling is imnecessary. Every one who 
considers the subject in all its bearings, must be fully convinced that wa 
are as much one people now as when our territory was not half or one 
fourth its present size. True, there may be now and then a discontented 
spirit manifested — as once in a while, for example, in South Carolina — but 
such a spirit can no more disturb the well arranged system of Republic 
camsm, than can the glare of an occasional comet derange the Divinely 
ordered system of the universe. 

There may exist wide differences of opinion on various subjects, party spirits 
may run high, sectional animosities may prevail, one principle may com» 
in contact with a counter principle — ^these are but purifying elements — 
they do not destroy the oneness — ^they but make it the more perfect 
The ocean is lashed into fury by the tempest, but it is one for all that 


Haying considered the objections which are brought to territorial ex- 
tension by this third class, let us pass to yet a fourth and last class. There 
are those who earnestly desire the extension of our territory by all hon- 
orable and peaceful methods. Having themselves experienced the benefits 
flowing from a free government, they are naturally desirous that others 
should enjoy the same blessings. Nor in this desire are they by any 
means regardless of the interests of their own country. They think that 
they see enough in its past history and present condition to warrant them 
in advxKating its extension, wherever and whenever the way is opened 
for such extension. 

Not by windy declamation on the " manifest destiny" of the race, 
would this party influence the minds of their countrymen, and urge them 
to a crusade against all despotism. Not by a reckless seizure on a por- 
tion of a sister republic would they extend the area of human bondage, 
tmder the pretense of extending the area of human freedom. Nor on 
the other hand would they timidly shut themselves up in their seclusion. 
They would rather throw wide open the gates of the temple of liberty, 
that the oppressed nations may come in. c. m. b. 

■^^^po- uxitrxTL ruir-i ^ ~ i ~ — — ■*» »>^.^^»^^.— — — » — - 

In this inquiring age nothing is left unquestioned. Whatever bears 
the marks of time is the proper subject of criticism and sneers. Truths 
which have commanded the assent and respect of ages can claim no ex- 
emption. Axioms must be proved and our own existence is doubted. 

The " New Elements" is as remarkable for its origin as its logic. "While 
in College the author had gone through three or four books of Euclid. 
For thirty years he had been engaged in foreign pursuits. Every demon- 
stration and almost every principle had faded from his mind, when it was 
accidentally turned to this subject all at once. With great acuteness he sees, 
*U at once, that Mathematics have been always groping in the dark and 
that Geometry now rests upon a false basis. For a Imig year and a half 
he labored to perfect a new system and build up this science upon true 
foundations. The results are embodied in the work before us. 

* New Eleooents of Geometry. By Seba Smith. New York, 1851. 


His great discovery is that a Geometrical line is not, as has been al- 
ways supposed, destitute of breadth and thickness ; that it is impossible to 
conceive of it according to the old definitions, and that if it has extension 
in either directions it is not indefinitely small, but is of finite magnitude. A 
line is therefore, he claims, a unit in breadth and thickness, and is a paral- 
lelopiped. A plane surface is a succession of straight lines and is a unit 
in thickness. There is then only one kind of quantity in Geometry in- 
stead of three, as heretofore. A line may be equal to a surface, or a soHd, 
as they are all of the same nature. This renders Geometry much simpler ; 
doing away with useless distinctions. 

Mr. Smith claims that it is impossible to form an idea of a line with- 
out breadth and thickness. As long as he refers to a material line, he is 
right ; for the idea of matter includes that of extension in all directions. 
But mathematicians treat of ideal lines, by their very definition not ma- 
terial ; and if the mind has any power of abstraction it can remove the 
other properties of extension and treat of its length alone. It does this 
not by a process of reducing a body to an infinitesimal thickness and 
then reducing in a similar way the breadth ; but by a simple act As 
such it needs and admits of no explanation. It is not the child that is 
troubled with obtaining the idea, it is the philosopher trying to explain 
the process. But should we grant (which we certainly do not) that such 
* an idea is impossible, we can at least regard a line as possessed of infinite- 
ly small breadth and thickness. There is no necessity for new definitions ; 
and Mr. Smith's only argument will be that they render Geometry more 

If all the relations of extension could be conceived of with equal ease 
and simplicity, by considering only one kind of quantity, it woidd, doubt- 
less, be better than to introduce three. But if such a course renders the 
processes of Geometry more complicate, and burdens them with useless and 
foreign ideas, this benefit will be dearly purchased. 

Conceive now what the more common Geometrical elements will be in 
this new system. The straight line is a right parallelopiped. Its upper 
surface corresponds with the plane of the paper. The volume of all recti- 
linear figures is Ukewise below this plane. We cannot consider this surface 
as the line, for then we lose sight of the thickness. K we treat of surface 
alone, without regarding the thickness, we revert to the old definitions and 
introduce another kind of quantity. Still less can we regard the corner as 
the line. We must always keep in mind that it has volume, though at 
times we do not use it, and it is plain that this volume must occupy some 
definite space. 

1851.] GSOMSTBY. 

A square would be a right parallelopiped with a square base and a unit 
in thickness. K we consider it as bounded by lines, they must have y<^ 
ume and locality. Their most natural position is without the square, and 
below the plane of the paper, so that their inner surfaces shall coincide 
with its outer edges. Draw now a diagonal. This must also have vol- 
ume and locality. One edge, we suppose, would be drawn through the 
centre of the square and the volume is disposed on one or the other side 
at convenience. At the comers it would evidently penetrate, to some 
extent, the lines of the circumference. K a line in another plane be drawn 
obliquely to one in the square, proper comers must be designated so that 
when they meet the lines may be considered as intersecting. We may, 
without doubt, conceive of all rectilinear figures as formed in a manner 
similar to the square and may demonstrate, if not all, a large proportion 
of their relations. 

But when we pass to curvilinear figures we meet some serious difiScul- 
ties. It T& not easy to get an accurate idea even of a curved line. Take 
the simplest case — ^the circimiference of a circle. It has volume, and that 
volume locality. But how shall we conceive of it ? A straight line bent 
into this form would be distorted. If it be a unit in breadth and lying 
without the circle, it is too large ; if within, it is too smalL K parUy 
without and partly within, how shall we know when another line meets 
it ? The most natural way seems to be to regard the circle as a polygon 
of an infinite number of sides, so that its circumference would consist of 
an infinite number of thin leaves as it were extending out in every direo- 
tion. Curves of double curvature are still more complicated. In these 
we can generally have only one comer of the leaves in contact, where be- 
fore we had the whole breadth of the line. 

Passing on we find the definition, '' a curved surface is composed of 
curved lines." If we have obtained the true idea of a curved line, accord- 
ing to our author, we may readily conceive of a cylindrical surfEU^e. This 
circle is, in fiEUit, a specimen of the common cylinder, and its circumference 
is such a saihjce. We confess ourselves however entirely at a loss whan 
we come to the cone. It would be most natural to consider the surface 
as an infinite number of triangles and the small prisms, a unit in height, 
erected on these as the volume of the surface. But this does not corres- 
pond with the definition. We confidently defy any one to tell how Mr. 
Smith would dispose of the spherical and other surfaces of revolution ; and 
the warped surfaces are equally, if not more, diflScult. 

Combine now these elements and we see how simple Greometry may be 
rendered. Take, as a specimen, one of the more complicated diagrams 

8 OBOMETBT. [Oct. 

of the hyperbohi in the conic fiections, and conceive it as fonned in this 
new system, making one of the axes the imit. Or if this be too simple, 
take those illustrating propositions in Descriptive Geometry, and we can- 
not fail to appreciate the beauties of this marvelous system. 

There is but one alternative as long as we give to lines and surfiu^es 
any definite solidity. It is possible to consider them as possessing volume 
which has no fixed location. The lino presented to the view is destitute 
of breadth and thickness, but we must yet suppose it possessed of the 
proper amount of volume — & kind of incorporeal hereditament. What 
great attractions such a two-fold view must present to the learner, from 
its remarkable simplicity ! 

Finding such perfection in ihQ foundation of the new system, we should 
e]q>ect to see the genius of the architect equally displayed in the super- 
structure. Behold, then, what admirable simplicity we find 1 Of the 
leventy-two propositions which he has given, forty-eight are devoted to 
the elucidation of a single one : " The area of a polygon circumscribing a 
circle is equal to the product of its perimeter into one half the radius of 
the circle." The demonstration of Prop. 62, which would ordinarily oo- 
capy about eight lines, here fills eight pages. " I most earnestly desire," 
says Mr. Smith, " to do something to simplify the study of Geometry — 
Bomething by which the benefits of its admirable discipline may become 
more widely diffused, and its beauties and harmonies more generally en- 
joyed." A treatment of the rest of Geometiy, according to these speci- 
mens, would certainly do much towards its universal diffusion. % 

Our author confesses that he has but little practical acquaintance with 
Algebra, and yet advises that it be not applied to any Geometrical sub- 
jects. The calculus comes under his ban. Perhaps Le Verrier ought to 
have discovered Neptune by synthetic methods. "Away," he would 
exclaim, " with the distinction between pure and mixed mathematics, and 
let the analytical branches be destroyed." What wonder that the child 
who has never crossed the parental threshold believes that the world is 
bounded by the visible horizon ! We might have been inclined to con- 
sider this confession rather as the result of extreme modesty, but must 
believe it is true when we meet such an assertion as this : " Algebra is 
entirely blind to the relations and agreements existing between surd quan- 
tities ; whilst arithmetical numbers, by carrying out the roots to a few deci- 
mal places, can see and show these relations and agreements as clearly 
and satisfactorily as in quantities with perfect roots." Any one who had 
been half way through quadratics might well be laughed at for such ex- 
treme ignorance. 

1851.1 GXOMBTBT. 9 

-* / 

We should be glad to notice the discovery of several such important 
truths as these — " There are no quantities or magnitudes in nature that 
are incommensurable" — " All mathematical numbers are but representa- 
tives of magnitudes, and all magnitudes have forms " &c^ but must deny 
ourselves the pleasure. 

We cannot, however, forbear quoting one or two passages of especial 
beauty. Speaking of the benefits of separating Algebra and Geometry 
he says, " But let him (the learner) descend into the deep caverns of 
Geometry with the Greek rule and compass in his hand, guided by the 
perfect modem numerical notation which the Greeks did not possess, and 
he carries a torch before him, which lights up his pathway, and the rich 
and bright gems of truth on all sides come flashing upon his gladdened 
sight from every crag and comer. Let the teachers of the worid give 
this important subject a fair hearing ; and if this prove to be the right 
view of it, let them wrest Geometry out of the hands of Algebra, strip 
the bandage from her eyes and let her walk forth again upon the earth 
with unclouded vision. Then shall she brush away the cobwebs and dust 
of modem abstractions, and clothed in a garment of new light and beauty, 
shall stand before the world more perfect and more comely than in the 
days of her Grecian youth. Then shall she carry forward her high mis- 
sion to elevate the condition of man, by teaching him G^'s everlasting 
truths. Then shall her dignity and divine importance be vindicated even 
to justify the assertion of Plato concerning the probable employment of 
the Deity, that ' He geometrizes continually.' " 

One more specimen and we close. " Through Geometry he (the child) 
should learn all his Arithmetic. Then would he find the dark and puz- 
zhng labyrinths of numbers to lighten up at every step of his progress. 
Then would the toilsome and blind path of arithmetic become a bright 
and pleasant road, and her mystic and vague expressions would open to 
hhn full of clear and beautiful meaning. Then would he see and com- 
prehend what is meant by those perplexing enigmatical things, the square 
root and the cube root. Then would the boy * with shining morning face* 
no longer be seen * creeping like snail unwillingly to school,' but tripping 
^th a light heart and singing for joy." 

All this would be very fine, no doubt ; but we fear it will take more 
than the " ^ew Element^'' to introduce such an intellectual millenium. 

H. A. K. 



The long, looe, dreary night had passed away 
At length ; how long, alas 1 to him 
Who sleepless marked time's sluggish step, till day 
Stood blushing on the dappled east : 
To him whose only watchers through that night 
Had been low, dingy walls, whereon 
A scanty hearth had cast pale streaks of light. 
Dancing to fitful gusts of wind. 
The friendless poet watched them playing there, 
And they to fancy spirits seemed 
Lurking in Death's shadow, ready to bear 
His grief-worn soul up to its Rest. 
But mom had now appeared — a mom of spring, 
Smiling on distant winter's scowl, 
And new life breathing into every thing 
Beneath the sun's all-warming blaze. 
Within this gloomy room, one ray of all 
That shone upon a world like this, 
Alone fell on the dusky chamber wall, 
Like an expiring torch within 
A graxe, or ^Eunting Hope upon the eye 
Of black Despair. The poet saw — 
And he who there had long, oft wished to die ; 
To leare a world most selfish, false. 
And be at home where spirits only come ; 
Besting his aching head the while 
Upon his fleshless hand, mused on his doom. 

My eyes have seen the beauteousness of earth : 
It is all glorious, all full of smiles — 
A temple for the dwelling in of gods. 
Its graceful hills with living verdure clad 
Celestial feet might tread upon unstained : 
The snowy foam of its unresting seas 
To be the birth-place of a goddess fit : 
The rainbow o'er its waterfalls the throne 
Of Naiads, with tresses of sun-gilt spray : 
Its mountains filled with Oreads, its lakes 
Spread out their glassy bosoms, as a floor 
For the soft feet of lightly-tripping nymphs ; 
And in the kingdoms of the viewless air 
Dwell charmful Sylphs away from vulgar eyes. 
Companions ever to the poet's soul. 

Tis beauty all in the wide range of thought ; 
Bat man's dark soul-— oh God ! how undefined I 

1851.] THE DYING FOBT. 11 

In darkness mantled, yet how much of light — 
Angel at once and devil — Heaven and Hell ; 
• Noonday and midnight here together sit ; 

Fair Love in arm with Hate, Hope with Despair ; 
Keen Remorse treading on the heel of Crime, 
And Murder dallying with pallid life ; 
Mercy clasping the knees of Justice stem, 
And Pardon at the ear of deaf Revenge ; 
Grouching beneath plumed Pride, Humility; 
Hypocrisy, stretching its hands to Heaven, 
But walking ever towards the gates of hell ; 
And over all Ambition with its head 
Among the stars sticks fast in earthy mire. 
Yu'tue is unrewarded here, and Vice 
Slips past the hand of Punishment 

But thua 
To spend a whole existence worshiping 
The Beautiful, and spreading out my hymns 
Of praise to it before mankind ; to glad 
A thousand hearts with new, embodied thoughts ; 
Looking with prophet-ken into the world 
Invisible, and tracing on the sky 
Of verse, the golden visions there discerned, 
And in the end to perish unbewept. 
With not a kindred soul to>love and cheer ; 
No hand to loose the gripe of Poverty ; 
No feeling breast whereon to lay my head. 
And so to die 1 Ye dreams of calm decline, — 
Of parting from this life like summer suns. 
That pour their blazing floods o*er all the west^ 
And thus diffused fade out upon the clouds ; 
How have I waked to storms tempestuous 
Upon this night of death I But it will soon 
Be past for aye. Longer I would not live ; 
My soul would quit this clogging tenement 
That binds it to the gross Material, 
On Heaven-lent wings to soar nearer the Sun 
Of truth, perfection, beauty and of love. 

Slowly the aged man sunk back 
Upon his couch, a feeble rack — 
The relic of a better day. 
The smoking embers on the hearth 
Went out, and as the last spark fled. 
Leaving the fragment cold and dead. 
The poet's spirit flew from earth. 
Quitting the thin, emaciated frame, 
A dust-doomed lump unworthy of a name, 
Wherein a soul, filled with poetic fire. 


Had lived bat to Mpire 

Higher aod higher, 

TiU Digher 

The pure and uncreated Soul of Life, 

Than men aspiring often on earth appear, 

He perished in the Heaven-daring etrife 

Without a friend, without a wail, or tear. 

The death-gasp echoed through that lonely room, 

At once a poef s cell, a poet's tomb. 

Rigid the writhing muscles grew and calm ; 

The thin and parted lips were pale ; 

The ghastly eyes fixed on the lone sun beam 

Might tell the living a sad tale. 

All hushed and still was now that solemn place ; 
None stood to gaze upon the dead one's face. 
Loudly the death-watch ticked behind the wall ; 
The cricket on the hearth came out and sang, 
And busy spiders wove a thin, gray pall 
Athwart the icy corse there as it lay. 
Within a neighboring steeple rang 
The morning bell, but not for him 
Who lay alone ; it was a merry day. 
And thousands through the crowded streets went past. 
Sending their wild and rushing din 
Into the chamber of the dead. 
It is a fearful thing indeed 
Even to dream, that such must be the last 
Of earthly scenes, to one like this. 
Whose every thought was happiness. 
When early prospects promised only bliss. 
Forgotten *mid his monuments of song. 
His lamp went out, as in a stormy night 
A tempest-braving ship, once winged and strong, 
Goes down hard by the useless beaoon-light h. 

If it is not a king among waters, I say 

It is yet what a Turk would call Al— i Bey, 

And, although not a Papist, I take it to be 

In some sense a member of some Wholly Sea ; 

Though not deep, it is witty, if salt goes for wit ; 

And at College 't would never be Fresh, I admit ; 

But its cold water fame, I am sorry to mar. 

For it has out of sight, near the light-house, a Bar ! 


1851.] ABSOLUTS pownu 18 

This is a term to which a great deal of odium is attached, and in most 
cases it has not been without reason. To free a man from all human re^ 
straint, to allow him to range untethered through the world, is a proceed- 
ing always to be deprecated, and which urgent necessity alone can justify 
or palliate. Even when the individual to whom absolute power is in- 
trusted has a sincere regard for the interests which occasion the trust, and 
is inclined to use it in the most beneficial manner, is the commission a 
fearful one. But it is when its possessor is influenced in the exercise of 
it more by private than by public ends, when however honorable his inten- 
tions may have been, he is moved by wrong counsels, or swayed by wrong 
motives, or when he wilfully uses his authority for the accomplishment 
of personal objects that the utter madness of the proceeding in most cases, 
is apparent. Yet that occasions do occur in which this course is called for, 
that there are times which demand the concentration of a nation's power 
and a nation's majesty into one focus, times when one man, energetic and 
patriotic, absorbing all the divided authority of a government in his own 
person can wield the whole with far greater celerity and proportionably 
greater effect than could be done through the cumbersome machinery of 
a legitimate administration, is what will be attempted to be proved. 

The main feature of government now is the distribution of power, in 
opposition to any extensive accumulation of it at any point. The motive 
principle, be it what it may, acts through such complicated machinery, 
the force is transmitted through such a variety of wheels and levers, and 
its amount graduated by such a variety of pinions and balances as to 
make it no easy task for one unacquainted with their operation to assign 
every effect to its proper cause, and always to render it difficult to recon- 
cile the regularity and evenness of the power thus attained, with the 
speed which it may be advisable sometimes to use. And whenever oo- 
casions arise, as they sometimes do, when celerity of movement is the 
main ingredient of success, when it is essential that the action shall be 
instantaneous, that the execution shall go hand in hand with the concep- 
tion ; in short, that a nation shall be endowed with all the activity and 
all the personality of an individual ; it can be done in no way so effectu- 
ally as by identifying an individual with the nation. True, this must be 
done at the expense of all those safeguards which a jealous regard for its 
liberties may have thrown around any government ; at a temporary sa- 


orifice of every thing which could render it worth preserving. But celerity 
is not the only benefit derived from such a course. Power can be applied 
much more forcibly this way than by the ordinary methods of procedure. 
And this additional force is partly the efiect of the additional celerity, and 
partly owing to the advantages which are inseparably connected with the 
unity and personality thus given it In war especially do the important 
results of such a concentration of power become most apparent. " The 
whole art of war," said Napoleon, ^ consists in being the strongest upon 
a given point at a given time." In other words, success must depend on 
perfect unity and quick decision. Discipline with soldiers is mere obedi- 
ence, and the more perfectly obedient they are, the more nearly they ap- 
proximate to Hving, breathing machines, pervaded by only one mind — so 
much the more effectually they act. And in governments where there 
are of necessity contending interests and hostile parties, could we find an 
in£EdHble leader to take charge of our fortunes, it might perhaps be well 
to entrust them entirely to his hands. The difficulty here is not in the 
extended application of the principle, but in the impossibility of finding 
such a leader. But even when any great disparity exists between indi- 
viduals, when any one man, in his motives, his designs, as well as his 
power of carrying them into execution is far above the ordinary standard 
of his fellow-men, it is often best to allow him full scope for his exer- 
cise. And it is questionable whether in every barbarous or semi-civilized 
race, one absolute ruler, such as has been describe^ would not exert more 
influence upon their prosperity and development than they could them- 
selves work out through ages. In the career of Peter the Great we find 
an exempHfication of this. The irresponsible nature of his position gave 
him opportunities for the accomplishment of more good on a more ex- 
tended scale than could possibly be possessed by any of less absolute au- 
thority, while his patriotism, or at least his pride, led him to improve 
each opportunity to the utmost And to him, severe and tyrannical as 
^ he often was, is Russia mainly indebted for her civilization and the influ- 
. ence she now enjoys. But this is a disparity which can exist only in a 
new or barbarous nation, and no superiority of talent, nothing but the 
eztremest necessity can furnish a sufficient motive for an enhghtened 
people to resort to this extreme proceeding. In cases like the above, 
where one man occupies a vantage ground over his fellow* men — where 
he possesses the wiU and the power, he can make it felt over the whole 
nation. Thus, Peter the Great could, by his firm will, and a stem and 
often despotic use of his power, force the whole Russian Empire to a cer- 
tain degree of civilization, coifid drive them as it were in an army to a 


certain height, but at this point the good effects of this mode of govern- 
ment, so &r as it is exerted on their civihzation, ceases. A nation, after 
it has attained a certain level, cannot be, or at least never has been, push- 
ed higher than this by any exertion of absolute power by one individual. 
All advances made beyond this, must be by themselves ; by their own 
separate expansion. The acorn has now been planted. The ground has 
been prepared, and the gardener has watched the germ with anxious eye. 
He knew that if violence was offered to the tender plant — ^if it was forced 
to assume an unnatural position — *' the deformed oak would tell the tale 
for centuries," and he accordingly guarded it with sedulous care — ^protect- 
ed it from injury until it gave promise of strength and majesty ; but here 
bis care can go no farther. It must now have full exposure to the free 
iiind of heaven ; the dews must fall upon it, aye, and the storms beat 
aioond it before the young sapling can grow to the perfect oak. Such 
ai«Bome of the advantages of absolute government; whether they are 
not more than counterbalanced by its disadvantages must, of course, de- 
pend upon drcumstanoes. o'b. 

^borlgmal MonmatntB of tijt il|li0dt00tp|)t iJalltQ. 

Perhaps no object strikes the tourist with more lively interest, than 
the fortifications, or mounds, in this part of the coimtry. They transport 
the mind at once to other days and other scenes — ^times whose history is 
enveloped in the dark miste of past ages; such obscurity as the aati- 
quarian can never unveil. 

These vestiges present several features which are worthy of observation. 
Rret They are wholly different from any other remains of antiquity 
which are known to exist In respect to themselves there is much simi- 
larity of construction, both in form and material. They consist of a cir- 
tnilar embankment formed of earth, and a ditch made by the excavations ; 
both alike serving for the purpose of defense. The walls, or fortifica- 
tions, differ much in the extent of their circuit ; sometimes enclosing 
twenty or thirty acres, and again not more than two or three. These 
works are invariably, when the nature of the situation will admit, very 


accurately circular ; and have usually two openings at opposite sides. 
These were, doubtless, secured by some kind of gates or doors, but 
which, from their perishable materia], have entirely disappeared. The 
ditch is usually about ten feet wide, and four feet deep, and the bank 
<rfa height corresponding to the quantity of earth cast out of the ditch. 
But this cannot be taken as a correct measurement of the works when 
first formed, since, in the natural course of events, the circular elevation 
would sink and become wider, while the ditch would fill up. In the 
centre of the circle there is a hillock in the form of a cone. This is usually 
two hundred feet in circumference, and some twenty feet high. Judging 
from appearances, this cone must have had a very pointed ventex, and 
much higher when built than now. It was formed of earth which was 
brought some distance, and there are no signs of excavations in its im- 
mediate vicinity ; or if it was obtained within the circle, this was done by 
scraping the earth from all sides in such a manner that its loss now makes 
no perceptible depression. This hillock was used as a sepulchre ; thus 
giving the works a twofold character ; that of a means of defense for the 
living, and a receptacle for the dead. The mounds have frequently been 
examined as to their contents, and in addition to the remains of human 
beings, are found also rude instruments of iron, beads or wampum^ and 
many similar articles belonging to rude society. In these ofierings which 
accompany the dead, we also find obscure traces of their religious notions ; 
that they had the common views of the uncivilized, that the departed re- 
quire some articles for their convenience in journeying to the land of 

There are very great numbers of human remains in these mounds, and 
we find some very near the top of them, and still more as we dig further 
down ; which &vors the idea that they had been long used as a place of 
burial by increasing their height. In their formation, as noticed above, 
we never find any thing employed save earth, even when stone exists 
in abundance. This fact seems to distinguish them from all other monu- 
ments built by savage or civilized races. In the earliest remains of 
Grecian architecture we find stone used, though in the rough state ; in 
the extreme East we find bricks employed for their structures ; in Mexico, 
Central America, and South America, both stone and bricks. 

Secondly. Their number i& very considerable, especially along the 
banks of streams. Frequently in such localities there are four or five 
within a mile of each other. 

We cannot infer a dense population, however, for various reasons. 
Although the same place was occupied, in all probability, by the same 


tribe 88 long as it held possession of the oountiy, yet from the warlike 
diaracter of the savages, the tenure was a precarious one. And when 
one tribe was driven, it is not likely that the conquerors would use the 
same receptacle for their dead ; being unwilling to mingle even with the 
dust of their enemies. This may account for the fact that so many monu- 
ments are found in a ci^rtain district in close proximity. For the most 
eli^le situations seem to have been selected, as regards means of de- 
fense, facility of construction, and productiveness of soil. Hence these 
advantages, where they existed together, would offer inducements for 
many near the same place. 

But in the third place — ^The time of their construction cannot be known 
with any degree of certainty. That they belong to a remote period, how- 
ever, may be inferred from unmistakable signs. The remains of the dead 
are in the last stage of decay — almost returned to mother dust. Only 
some of the harder parts of the bones and the teeth remain entire. Even 
when we first bring them from the earth, if they present a sound appear- 
ance, they quickly crumble when brought into the open air. Their beads 
are in a better state of preservation ; being made of some very hard and 
durable shells. The bones present very much the appearance of having 
been calcined ; yet we learn from their structure that this is not the effect 
of fire, but of time. From the timber found upon these works, we can 
safely place their origin many centuries in the past. Trees of the largest 
size grow in the trench, on the embankment, and also on the mound it- 
seE Here are the stately black walnut and ash, trees of exceeding 
slow growth. These are ofi;en four and five feet in diameter, a size which 
they would not attain under ordinary circumstances in less than a thou- 
sand years. Besides, there are old trunks of the same kind of trees within 
the enclosure, which, from their decayed appearance, could not have lain 
much short of a century ; all of which give us a better estimate of the an- 
tiquity of these works. But these facts do not fix a precise time for their 
origin ; for the present growth of timber may have been preceded by 
another and another, and thus their period be placed farther back. We 
can, from such facts, only say that they are not of modern origin. Another 
circumstance would lead us to the same condusion. The tribes who 
lived in the vicinity, at the settlement by Europeans, could give no account 
of their origin. As to the natives themselves, who at that time possessed 
the country, they constructed nothing of the kind. Doubtless nations have 
risen, flourished for a season till some stronger power came along, then 
Wlen to rise no more — Cleaving only vestiges enough to prove their exist- 
ence. It is with melancholy interest that we have approached the tombs 
VOL. xvu. 3 

18 BIBDS OF PA68AOB. [Oct 

' I — - 

of the Red man. Our curiosity overcoming our veneration, we have 
opened their recesses, and rudely brought forth the reliques of the brave 
warrior. As we gathered the fragments of skulls, as we picked up the 
arm of the stalwart savage, we scarcely felt justifiable in thus disturbing 
the long repose. Here perhaps lay a chief^ shrewd in council and mighty 
in war. What courage once dwelt in this forsaken mansion ! What 
agility once actuated these limbs in the hunt, or in the tumult of battle ! 
Here perhaps he died fighting bravely to ward off" the enemy ; and here 
he was laid to rest amid the honors of his country, and the lamentations 
of his kindred. Perhaps here are the ashes of a " medicine man," of the 

♦ ♦ * ♦ " Whose untatored mind 
Saw God in doads and heard him in the wind ;" 

he that in the simplicity of his nature foretold the secrets of the misty fu- 
ture, as he murmured his pow wow over the pot of smoking drugs. How 
changed the scene ! Then was all life and activity. The luxuriant forest 
waved its green boughs, and the sprightly deer bounded over the hills. 
The smoke of the wigwam rose in the mild breeze of the morning, and 
the children of nature rejoiced in the buoyancy of life. But how different 
now ! The stillness of centuries hangs as a pall over the resting place of 
the warrior. . His eyes were closed in the sleep that knows no waking. 
Time has swept his very name into oblivion. Gazing into this hill of 
earth do we not read our own destiny ? Does not the tottering column, 
the crumbling marble, and the sinking mound speak to us ? Time, who 
sweeps away all before him, will not pass us by, and we shall, Hke the 
Bed man^ sleep on unknowingly and unknown. j. c. 

Bir2r0 of l^aMa^t. 

Why away, ye Birds that caroled 
Here, so swiftly have ye passed ? 

Have ye heard old Winter's herald 
Loudly sound his warning blast f 

Why do breezes as they nestle 
In the bare and dreary tree. 

Seek in vain the leafy rustle, 
Miss your answering melody ? 

1851.] BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 19 

Heard ye Autumn, moaaiDgy dying, 

As ye nestled in the spray! 
Is't for this ye now are hieing 

Over regions far away ! 

Or because the boughs deserted 
Shorn and brown up-reach toward heaven, 

Silent mourn the gifts, departed, 
Spring-bestowed, now winter-riren ! 

Has the storm-^oud darkly shading 

Dimmed your coverts in the grove, 
Or have leaflets falling, fading, 

Bid you, songsters, hence to rove! 

Has the driving snow yet gathered 

Where reposed your downy breasts. 
Where your toil had warmly feathered 

As for life, your little nests ! 

Or has deadly hail from Heaven 

Rattling down 'mid branches bare, 
Sudden, startling warning given 

Ye were not in safety there ? 

Tell us, songsters, who have left us 

For a flight o'er regions vast, 
Have these causes stem bereft us. 

Shades of mourning o'er us cast ? 

' Hark ! methinks they sing, obeying 

Our far distant earnest caU, 
TunefiiUy I hear them saying, 
As their bird-tones clearly fall ; — 

** Aye I for these our way erratic 
Little pilgrims we have ta'en ; 
God directs our flight prophetic, 
Where he bids us we remain. 

Prophets are we warblers, roaming. 

Telling y<}u of future change. 
When, from northern regions coming. 

Winter stem, abroad shaU range. 

So, though skies were bright above us. 

And the fields were dressed in green. 
And the zephyrs seemed to love us, — 

^et a change to come, was seen. 



Yes I we saw the leaf-fall coxnixig ; 
Heard the autumn's dying wail ; 
And the froeiKslad herald dooming 
Earth to frost and snow and haiL 

And we waited not, till dreary 
Winter came, with diill and snow, 

Fearing not to faint or weary, 
Taught of God our strength to know. 

Taught of Him, our way erratic. 
Little pilgrims we have ta'en ; 

God directs our flight prophetic; 
Where He bids us, we remain T 

Tes 1 sweet absent (mos, ye tell us, 
Wintry days will soon be here. 

When the Ice-king shall assail us. 
Making aU things waste and drear. 

When, his snow-dad hosts advancing. 
He, fierce ** Monarch of the north,'* 

From his crystal throne far glancing. 
Dooms the shivering, paling earth ; — 

Ye, mid verdure firesh, may carol 
Tunefully your songs of praise 

To his name, who, forth from peril 
Led you through aerial ways. 

Oh I let us instmotion gather. 
From those songsters far away ; 

Learn to trust our Heavenly Father, 
And his gracious will obey. 

When, as strides the King of Winter, 
Oome old age and sickness sore, 

Thi^eatening our loved homes to enter, 
Where they never frowned before ; — > 

When chill Death, a hostile comer, 
God shall tell us, drawetH near, 

May our souls, like birds of summer, 
Stay not for a shelter here. 

Startled by the Heavenly warning. 
May they leave this home of clay, 

Let them take " the wings of morning,'* 
Bise frcmi earth and flee away I 


Hills and valleys are the unevenness of the earth ; ranks and stations 
the unevenness of human condition. There are laws of association and 
principles of analogy. Dreams take advantage, as far as possible, of the 
mental faculties, without awakening the suspicion of deception. Inco- 
herence is their prerogative. From these elements will grow out directly 
or indirectly probably all that follows. Day-dreams differ somewhat 
fiom those of the night in perhaps being a Kttle more rational — ^nothing 
more. When philosophical Jacques " throws himself down under the 
shade of melancholy boughs," and cherishes his dark reflections on 
"all that is," the matter-of-fact tongue pronounces him weakly sentimen- 
tal. But his lamentations are for the most part heard in the wilderness- 
silence and nature elicit them. He that sits for this purpose at the way- 
side of life can find enough to laugh at, or weep over, in the motley 
crowd passing by. 

But it is not a melancholy feehng that comes over me reclining on this 
hiU, with one eye on the Future, the other on the Past, and merely the 
physical me in the Present. I have happened to drop down here in my 
reckless flight from care and labor ; and if it please shall gaze and medi- 
tate, if not — sleep. For here " no noisy bells intrude ;" no city tumult 
thrusts its tongue into your very ears, and hisses — ^business, fashion, toil. 
If I am doomed to fall asleep let me consider the dimensions of my 
couch. Of the Hill this is the summit, from which it slopes down on all 
sides to valleys, and beyond these rise mountains up to the very sky. The 
mountains are majestic, and on that side they stretch away where dis- 
tance throws its blue mantle over them, and they lie misty and dim 
against the clouds. On this they are nearer, and I can see the forests 
bending to the breeze. But nowhere can I look beyond the circuit — 
mountains and sky — ^from the amphitheatre of the one stretch up the 
tent-like curtains of the other to the zenith. Not beyond can the eye 
penetrate — ^not beyond the present can mortal vision look. What folly in 
the attempt to look away those mountains, and that sky, to see what 
beauties may chance to lie beyond I How madly we bend human sight 
against the walls of the Future, as if to melt them down with the inten- 
sity of the gaze ; and roll those feeble orbs all along the limits of the 
Present, as if it were possible to pass. 

Indeed this scene reminds me of the mind. In the valleys meditation 
walks ; thought sits silent on the hills, and over all the clouds of imag< 


ination float, dropping their life-giving dews, till the golden harvest of 
ideas waves on every summit, slope and plain. 

Looking hence those mountains seem smooth as a painted scene, and 
the sunlight lie^ on them like a faded veil of gold. But stand there in 
person — ^walk about — ^the foot stumbles over jagged rocks ; fsistens in 
tangled weeds, or sinks in the mire and you are precipitated, to end all, 
down a precipice into a gulf dark as night, and fiill of all loathsome 
creatures. In that forest so inviting the serpent winds his clammy coils 
around the flEurest trunk and limb, and the beast crouches in the coolest 
thicket for his prey. ^ Distance lends enchantment to the view :" Dis- 
tance, ever walking before us as we go, making the rough smooth : Dis- 
tance the magic painter. Oh ! this broken, chasmy, miry Present — ^it 
will flow back into the past, till we shall see only smooth, sunny, painted 
hills. We will forget where we stumbled, where sunk, where the reptile 
stimg us. The peaks alone will remain. 

Before my eye still gazing on those hills a swarm of insects buzz, frail 
and forceless as the fog sucked from the swamp by the sun, in whose rays 
they are basking. They will flutter till the sun has set, and those who 
look for them after will look in vain. These creatures live, forced into 
life by nature — ^hum drowsily to day, and to-morrow are — perhaps noth- 
ing. So are there said to be " insect minds," that sustain a sleepy buzz 
for an hour in the Present, and leave no more impress on the world, 
than do those tiny wings upon the air that seems their birthplace and 
their grave. What good these do is not easy to discover ; what evil I 
know not, more than to drift into my eyes and start a tear, forced out 
not by " brute," but insect force. But they go to make up the complete 
scene — ^a random, yet beautiful mark, made by a straggling hair from 
ihe brush of Nature. 

How it floats along, now dashing on like a mad thing as the hurrying 
breeze catches it, and now sailing dreamily in the calm — ^that thistle' 
down I Now it rises above the hills, and is lost in the blue of the sky, 
and again sinks down gliding over the background of the mountain : a 
thing inanimate on wings ! Unfortunately it trusts to the wind for trans- 
port, and lights by the aid of chance. It requires the energy of life and 
will, to soar and light with independent ease. Soul of man ! inmiortal 
thistle-down, tossed into the winds of Time. It sometimes ascends far 
above the hills of matter, and seems going airily and joyfully up the sky 
in its native element, but a gust of passion seizes it, and down it is dashed 
all ruffled toward the valley. Now it is seen in strong relief upon the 
background of Sense, and now is hurtied up lost in ethereal fields, 


- — - — — - _---.>--^ — -■ , 


** Divinely darting upward every wish ; 
Warm on the wing, in glorious absence loBi.** 

The whirlwind of Ambition bears it far upward among the stars, or 
with reversed direction drives it downward into the dust, where the foot 
of the passing beast crushes it forever. Lightest, weightiest, highest, 
lowest of conceivable things. • 

Thought, like a gentle breeze, breathes upon it, moving its downy 
wings up — ^up, till earth's loftiest mountain disappears, and Immortality 
stands full in view on the dome of Immensity. How the vision over- 
whelms I Immortality — a form for which the Future is weaving no 
shroud; digging no grave. Fire-fly suns and stars shine about it a 
moment — a few thousand ages — and then go out foreyer. Still un- 
changed it gazes with fadeless eye through space, while all things on 
which Finite is written rise, sparkle and die, and the winds of flying 
ages drift their dust around its pedestal. 

While I write, an unsightly thing of the insect Itribe, with its crooked, 
countless legs, strides across the sheet like a half-developed passion — 
thought And looking closer in the grass about me, I see innumerable 
creeping things, of shapes, dimensions and colors differing in each — ^long- 
bodied or short — legless, wingless, or legged, winged — green, black or 
gray as it may chance ; crawling among the spires of grass as we among 
the trees of the forest. Although we are thus mightier than they, yet 
there is a world common to both. We have but to look toward the 
other extreme, to see beings to whom " worlds are but lamps hung up 
for light in the universe." Thus stand we half way up the " scale of 
bemg" — angels above, and things below us. What impulses move these 
creatures in their strange crawlings it matters not now — impulses there 
are. So man scrambles over creation driven on by longings forever ar- 
dent as Appetite itself fed on hopes, and ^ bidden eat the east wind." 
As I He here and feel the ridiculous stirred within me by the senseless 
frettings of these creatures, so doubtless, above us are beings who look 
* down with laughter upon human antics. They laugh at us digging 
down mountains and tunneling hills to be a little richer, and ride a Httle 
easier for an hour — ^laugh to see whole nations of these pigmies at fisti- 
cufis for a real nothing, but supposed something — disposing of life as if 
the actual authors of it Man to angels may be small ; but to himself 
loan is almost a god. 

Something whispers in my ear, I would like to sleep that ^^ breathless 
slumber" on this hill-top, that at the resurrection mom I might behold, 
from the bursting sods of yonder encircling mountains, the dead of all 


ages past buried there rise peopling the slopes with mingled races. 
The tawny Indian shoulder to shoulder with the "pale face;" he of 
a thousand years burial with him of yesterday — all standing face to 
fiice, and eye to eye — ^unknowing and imknown ; the rediscovered tide- 
marks of the ceaseless waves of immigration. 

But hark ! a dozen peaks are echoing that peal of thunder, and over 
the summits the huge black clouds come rolling their massy folds — a fierce 
8torm among the hills. Fast toward the east they drive, and now but a 
hand's breadth of blue sky is visible — it is covered — all is storm. Night 
comes up the valley ; already its black robes sweep by me— my dream 
vanishes ; the world is confused and forgotten. To shelter. ' * 

irun_rLru~u"WLn-rti~M-^ --— ^■--■■ ■*^ ^^^>i^ 

tl)t IDrtttrs of ttjt €lt^abeti)an ^gt. 

That this is a reading age, has long since passed into a proverb, 
although we are not informed whether it is a thinking age. We often 
amuse ourselves in conjecturing the probable thoughts of the sages of the 
olden time, could they only be permitted to revisit the earth and see our 
balloons, our locomotives or our steamboats. In my opinion however 
nothing would be so wonderful to one of the wise men of antiquity as the 
amount of reading, when brought into comparison with the amount of 
thinking which we perform. Through quartos and octavos, whose very 
titie pages would suffice to occupy the brief space allotted to humanity, we 
I^od our way — gathering here a flower and there a gem — swallowing the 
mass of light literature for the few thoughts contained— despising the 
stream of truth when it gushes pure from the fountain of ancient litera- 
ture, but eagerly drinking it, after large dilution and unnecessary attenua- 
tion while passing from the books of ancient authors to the puerile pages of 
modem literature. It is said of Hobbes that his library consisted of Homer, 
Ihucydides, Euclid and Virgil, and when asked why he did not read as 
much as other men, he replied that if he did he should know as littie. 
We would not approve of such extreme fastidiousness, for a knowledge 
of contemporaneous literature is all important to the educated man, but 
we feel that the light literature of modem times takes too much of our 
attention from the study of ancient learning. We profiss to venerate the 
English classic authors, to reverence the names of Bacon, Locke and 
^akspeare ; but do all who profess a knowledge of their writings in 


realty know them. Too ofiten, I fear, thoee l»ight lights which we have 
by unammous consent placed in the heavens, are left to shine in solitary 
grandeur unheeded, while the passing meteors flickering for a while be« 
tween obscurity and darkness, are looked upon as the source of all 

The ancient literature of England, when compared with modem trash, 
has something noble in its frame work. Its architects were Sidney and 
Baoon, Shakspeare and Raleigh, Jonson and Spencer, and yet we turn 
from the repast to which they invite us to the milk of thes^ latter days, 
fit only for babes in the literary Ufe. We pore over the frippery of some 
unthiitking coxcomb while Jonson is imopened, Shakspeare imread, and 
Sidney unknown. And yet if English genius and Uterature are to be 
known and honored, where shall we find them but among the authors of 
this age. Blot out^ the names of Shakspeare, Jonson, Marlowe, Milton, 
and their cotemporaries, and what have you left but a wilderness of 
thought over which the eye may wander and sicken ere it find substance 
on which to rest. I do not say that modem writers have no merit nor 
that literature flourished only among the writers of Elizabeth's age. No, 
I would not slight the talents of Sir Richard Steele, of Joseph Addison, 
nor tear a feather from the plumage with which Johnson, Scott, and 
others have decked themselves at a later period. But surely the Augus- 
tan age of British literature was that in which a maiden queen swayed 
the destinies of the nation. What have modem writers added to the 
original stock of valuable literature? The most celebrated writers of 
modem times have been merely critics or copyists of these fathers of 
learning. Their object has been to refine and pohsh at the risk of sub- 
stituting refinement for genius and elegance for invention. Of late w« 
have had no noble stmcture reared by the human mind from its original 
reBoureee. Johnson has only decked out ancient tmths in his majestic 
diction. Burke's mind could not stoop to imitation and he became 
through necessity a statesman and an occasional critic. Groldsnuth said 
that he found every thing new to be false, and he became a compiler and 
a letter writer. Berkely and Bolingbroke tried to discover new tmths 
and astonish the world with their originality ; but they were stars shoot- 
ing madly from their orbits, creating nothing but wonder and fear. 

Our lot has been cast in degenerate times— criticism, imitation, and 
drivelling make up the staple of our literature. The soil in which our 
first English authors labored was well fitted to repay their toil. For a 
thousand years scarce a ftirrow had been tumed. Before the Christian 
era skillful laborers bad toiled in the field, but a long and dreary winter 


26 "letters home." [Oct 

had chilled the plants they had carefully reare<i. Darkness and death 

followed the dismembennent of the queen of cities, till the sun of tnitli 

on its rays of light bore spring time and life to the fallow land. Then 

flowers sprang forth — the earth was green again and smiled as a garden 

of rare and beautiful plants. 

Such have often been our reflections when contemplating the reign of 

Elizabeth, whose name should ever be held sacred as long as love of 

truth, genuine nobleness and worth remains. Laurels have been won 

under other sovereigns. Under Elizabeth no charter was granted, no 

concessions to the people made. Before her reign Richards fought for 

their country and Henrys triumphed, and since her time at Blenheim 

and Waterloo, Marlboro has vindicated and Wellington crowned her 

first among the powers of the earth. But, for all that can make a nation 

great, admired, immortal, we yield the palm to the maiden queen, hi 

vain shall we expect again to find such men as Raleigh and Sidney, hi 

vain shall we call again for Spencer to tune his fairy harp or for Shaks- 

peare to unfold nature to our view. England can produce such men but 

once. Rays of light have appeared at other times, but with Elizabeth 

Arose the sun himself. Around her name shine luminaries, 

** Thick as the glowing stars in heaven's blue vault** 

B. w. G. 

[Wb had some little hesitation in admitting the following correspondence to a 
place in our pages, and for two reasons — ^first, the style is below that standard of 
dignity to which such a Magazine as ours should aspire ; and second, there may 
■eem, at first view, a treading on forbidden ground. Our apology for the first is 
a great dearth of articles calculated at all to excite the risibiUties — and for the se- 
ooiid, we cannot perceive, on a careful examination of the piece, any intention to trans' 
gross any rales of propriety. Whether the author has given us a chapter in hia own 
personal experience or not, he has not informed us. — Eds.] 

from a tutor in college. 

Yalb College, . 

Dear Madam, — ^It becomes my duty, according to College laws, to 
inform you that your son's marks have amounted to eight. We are, in 
general, well pleased with his conduct — and particularly well pleased with 
his scholarship. He is in a fair way to take at the Junior Exhibition a 
very high appointment 

With much respect and esteem, 

I remain your obedient servant. 

1851.] "letters home." 27 

extract from the son to his mother. 

Yale College, 

Dear Mother, — 

* * * * Tutor called me up 

this morning and told me that as I had eight marks, the faculty, at their 
last meeting, had directed him to correspond with you— or, in other 
words, that I was to have a " letter home." I am sorry that you are to 
hear no better accotmt of me from the faculty — ^but the faculty cannot 
always judge so well of a student as can his classmates. For, although 
I have been sick a good deal this term. Bill Jones, the best scholar in our 
class, told me the other day that he was afraid that I should have the 
vale(fictory. So mother you must not be discouraged by the letter of 
Tutor . * * * * 



dear sur — i receved your favorite of the 16th instanter tother day bout 
jwnes i am very glad To here he is gittin along so well down to New- 
haven i am glad to here he has got 8 marks he allers did git more marks 
than any on em when he went to the cademy he wus oilers up to the Top 
OT his class i got a leter from him when i got youm he says he is sorry 
you Do not tell a better story about him now he oilers was mity ambi- 
ihous about study and was oilers afeard folks woodent give him all he 
deaarved so i aint consamed but what hes doing well in the study line 
hut im rally consamed a bout the boys helth he says hes been sick a good 
deal this quarter and some ov his mates is afeard hes goin to have the 
Taledictry Now hes never ben nockerlated* i tried a long time befor 
my poor Husband died to have him have all the children nockeiv 
lated for there was ole Docter fansher lived rite acrost the road from our 
House the best nockerlater i ever new in all my bom days but now my 
poor Husbands gone and the doctors gone an^ im desprit afeared my 
poor jamey wil go tu the lord be mussifiil im a oomeing rite down 
to newhaven arter we git threw our fall work i hope you wil see that my 
deer boy is well doctored and nussed as soon as you can an prevent ef 
possible any sech aflflictin calamity the boys helth has bin falin for some 

* We have. — Eds. 

n "IJWTER8 HOIIE.^ [Oct 

time past im rally feard he studys too hard when he cum home last vo- 
cation he looked as though he wusent long for this worl he said his class 
had been through a bilin exanimashun an he sed he had to work very 
hard to get threw an he sed he only got threw as it was on suttin con- 
ditions he sed when he did git threw he sot up evry night for sevral 
nights i spose nis narms sistim was so unstrung he coodent sleep he told 
as how he had a wannin to This ere as sort ov irish wake i spose or sum 
sech kind ov thing these things are well enuf in there place i reckon but 
it wont du for the boys to hev 2 many ov em peers to me twood be well 
enuf fur yu sur to tri to hev em discontinud in filter thers one succiun- 
stans my deer sur which i wish to ask 301 bout ive Oilers herd how they 
bused freshmuns down to colige now my boy aint a freshmim but i didnt 
no But ferstyner he mite hev been imposed on in a kind of sly way cos 
one day when i Went to mend his cote i Found in wim pokit a mess ov 
ole seegar stumps and in a nuther wun a mity curus httle bottle kinder 
like a nussin bottle with a grate big brittauny kiver i must say i was a 
little skeered when i made these diskeviries But my ankshus mind wus 
gretly alleeverated wnen i cum to ask jamey about em i rally pitted the 
poor boy he took on so to think that sum ov them rascally coleegiers as he 
calld em his buzzum frens should put them things into his poldts to 
make his deer ma spose he was a nee brayat or eny ways Dictated to 
sedi pracktizes it duz seem to me that such canyins on ort' not to be al- 
lowed in oolige an that the &cultery ort to put a stop to them at once 
or i should think that sum sociashun mite be formd amungst the studens 
to £roun indignantly on oil sech proceedins but as i sed a fore i am comin 
rite down to newhaven to See about my boys helth and i will call on yu 
an wee wil have a long talke on oil these consams in the menetime i hope 
yu wil see that james does dont git the valedictry bad i am very glad 
sur you writ me a letter a bout him i hope to hev a good meny more &om 
yu i hope you will rite a longer wun next time yu rite when you cum to 
punkintoun you must make our house your home we shal oilers be glad 
to see you or to here of your wellbein ant jemima sends her love to yu 
and hopes yu injoy your mind well with the kindest ov feeelins toards 
yu an the gretest respect for the enstitooshun ov which yu hev the onner 
to be sech a distingwished servent i beg leve to subscribe myself yours 
affeckshnnatelsy wider hulday . 


%i)at JHorntng 3til. 

That morniog bell 1 that morniDg bell 1 
How many a dream its notes dispel. 
Of pleasures sweet, and golden days, 
And fairy forms with witching ways I 

That morning bell ! that morning bell 1 
How many a flunk its tones foretell, 
Whose cirdes round the pillowed head 
With dance &ntastic, terror spread. 

When tolls that bell— that morning bell, 
How many a tale our memories tell ! 
While fizsles grim of ghastly hue, 
like grayeyard spectres rise to Tiew. 

That morning bell 1 that morning bell I 
What sad mishaps have oft befell, 
When in the land of dreams we'd roam, 
To hear next day of 'letters home T 

'Twill be the same when we are gone, 

That iron tongue will still clang on ; 

But then we'll snooze and slumber well, 

And cease to curse that morning belL a 

iSIemorabUta IJaUnBta. 


Trerx has been a tradition, that a premium was formerly given in Yale College 
^7 Noah Webeter, LL. D., for the encouragement of excellence in English composi- 
tion. We have made some inquiries on this subject and have ascertained the fdi- 
lowing facts. 

In 1790, Noah Webster, Esq., granted to the President and Fellows of Yale Col- 
" one copy of each himdred copies of any and all parts of his Granmiatical 
Imitate of the English language," which should be annually sold in the State of 
Connecticut The principal condition of which grant was, — that the money arising 
from the sale of the books given, should " be and constitute a premium to be assigned 
^y the authority of the said College, consisting of the President, Professors, and 
TntorB for the time being, at the annual examination in May, to the author of the 
^8t treatise on Ethics, Moral Philosophy, or Belles Lettres, to be exhibited to the 



said authority of College, by any person being of the Junior or Senior Glass in said 
College, or a Bachelor of said College, under the degree of Master of Arts." 

The first premiiun was adjudged in 1791 to Samuel Miles Hopkins, at that time a 
member of the Senior Class. Mr. Hopkins was afterwards a Representative in 
Congress from the State of New York, and in other ways distinguished in public 
life. He died in 1837. His composition was entitled *' An Essay on the Religious 
Opinions of Mankind, and their Effects on Mamiers and Morality.'* 

The premium of 1792 was adjudged to James Oould, at that time Junior Bachelor 
of Arts of the Class of 1791. Mr. Gould was afterwards a Tutor in the College, 
rose to great distinction in Connecticut as a lawyer and law-lecturer, and was for 
some years a Judge of the Superior Court He died in 1836. His composition was 
entitled, " A Treatise on the Origin and Progress of Hbtory, and the Utility of 
Historical Knowledge." 

The premium of 1793 was adjudged to Josiah Stebbins, at that time Middle 
Bachelor of Arts, of the Class of 1791. Mr. Stebbins was afterwards a Tutor in the 
College, and subsequently resided in Maine. He was a lawyer by profession, was 
engaged in public life, and while Maine was connected with Massachusetts, was, 
one year or more, a member of the Goremor's council He died in 1829. His com- 
position was entitled, ** Thoughts on the Progressive Improvement and CorruptioQ 
of Morals; — with some occasional observations on the Morality of Ancient and 
Modem Times." 

The premium of 1794, and that of 1796, were adjudged to Jeremiah Atwater, in 
1794 Junior Bachelor, and in 1795 Middle Bachelor of Arts, of the Class of 1793. 
Mr. Atwater was afterwards a Tutor in the College, was the first President of Mid- 
dlebury College in Vermont, and subsequently for several years, President of Dick- 
inson College at Carlisle, in Pennsylvania^ He is still living. His composition ia 
1794, was entitled, " An Essay on the True Dignity of Genius ;" — and that in 1795, 
** A View of the Origin of the Heathen Mythology, and its Influence on the Moral 
and Intellectual Powers." 

We have been able to find no record of any premium adjudged after 1796. There 
is a tradition, however, which we suppose may be relied upon, that the last Web- 
ster premium was adjudged to Jeremiah Evarts, of the Class of 1802, — ^but in 
what year is uncertain. Mr. Evarts was well known as the Secretary of the Amer- 
ican Board of Foreign Missions. He died in 1831. 


It is worthy of note that an increasing interest is manifested in College in behalf 
of the Calliopean Society. That Society having been formed and sustained chiefly 
by students from the South, our readers will be gratified at seeing the following 
table, which has been made out to show the relative number of students from the 
southern portion of our country in the fifty classes that graduated at Yale College 
in the first half of the present century. It will be observed that the number of 
students from the South has been increasing during the whole period, though with 
considerable irregularity. It is supposed that no northern College has as great a 
representation from the South. The results were obtained by an examination of the 
official annual Catalogues of the College, which are issued about the middle of the 
first Term. The column marked Fresh, exhibits the per centage of southern students 




in each ci these fifty classes in the early part of its first year ; those marked Soph., 
Jua, and Sen. exhibit this per centage for the three subsequent years : 















































































































































































































































.23 / 























The ETerage number by decades of years is as follows : 

































The public exercises connected with Conmiencement began as usual with the 
Sermon to the Graduating Class, which was preached in the College Chapel om 
Sonday altefnoon, July 27, by Rev. Dr. Fitch. 


On If ooday evening the 26ih Anniversary of the Beethoven (Sacred Music) 
Society was celebrated in the College Chapel, on which occasion Rev. Horace Bush- 
J^Il, D. D., of Hartford, one of the founders of the Association, delivered an admira- 
^ discourse on the subject of Sacred Music. ^ 


Tbe erection, then just completed, of an Organ in the Chapel, gaye additional in- 
terest to this anniyersarj. A meeting of the past and present members was after- 
ward held, and hereafter there will annually be a similar gathering of the graduate 
and undergraduate members during Conmiencement week. 


Rey. Lyman H. Atwater, D. D., of Fairfield, deliyered this annual sermon in the 
North Church upon Tuesday eyening. His text was Gal. ii, 16, and his subject 
<* Justification by Faith." The discourse has since been published. 


This Society met at 8 o'clock on Wednesday morning and elected for the annual 
meeting of 1862, Hon. Daniel Webster as Orator, and Hon. Wm. H. Seward Ieis 
Substitute ; and also Rey. John Pierpont as Poet, and Fitz Green Halleck, Esq. as 


At 9 o'clock on Wednesday, the Alumni gathered in the spacious tent erected 
directly in front of the Library Building. 

Hon. R. S. Baldwin was chosen President of the day, Hon. A. N. Skinner, Vice 
President, and Hon. John A Rockwell and Rey. S. W. S. Dutton, Secretaries. 

After prayer by Rey. Theophilus Smith, D. D., and the reading of the minutes of 
the last annual meeting, the record of deaths among the Alumni, (prepared by Pro£ 
Eingsley and Mr. Herrick,) was read by Rey. Mr. Dutton. 

Hon. Asa Bacon, of Litchfield, was then called up to speak upon the sentiment— 
" The Mempry of the Dead." 

Frea Woolsey then announced the resignation of Professor Kingsley, — ^who has 
been an officer of this Institution for fifty years, — ^and expressed the regrets of 
the present officers at losing his aetiye seryices. He was followed by Pro£ Thadier, 
who reyiewed at length the important seryices of Prof Eingsley, and dosed with 
moying the following resolutions, similar to those which the Corpcuration had preyi- 
onsly adopted, in accepting Ihis resignation : — 

JReaolved, That this association express their grateful appreciation of the impor- 
tant seryices which haye been rendered to Yale College by Pro£ Kingsley, during 
the half century during which he has been an officer of this institution. 

Jiesolved, That while they regret that he has thought fit to retire from the aetiye 
duties of his office, they rejoice that aa a Professor Emeritus he will still continue 
to giye the College the benefits of his mature experience and sagacious counsels. 

Resolved, That it is their earnest and united desire that he prepare a history 
•of this College, whose annals haye been so adorned by his pure and dassic taste, his 
complete knowledge and his generous and enlarged enterprise. 

Ex-President Day arose to bear his testimony to the abilities and seryices of Prof 
Eingsley and dosed with seconding the resolutions, which were then unanimously 

Hon. Julius Rockwell, of Pittsfield, afterward spoke upon a sentiment alluding 
to the ** Reminiscences of Cdlege life and their influence on after life." 

Hon. Linus Child, of Lowell, addressed the meeting upon the ** Connection oi 
American Industry with Americap Mind and Literature," and other speeches were 


made by Rev. Dr. Robbios, of Hartford, Rev. Dr. Adams, of New York, Rey. Mr. 
Mdridge, of New Bedford, T. L. Bayne, Esq., of New Orleans, and W. K Robinson, 
Esq., of New York. 
The exercises were enlivened by singing, in wbioh the Beethoven Society led. 


The Commencement of the Theological department took place on Wednesday 
afternoon, in the Centre Church, when addresses were delivered by the following 
speakers — 
Silas W. Robbins, on ** The Visible Church, its Design and Efficacy." 
David Pbck, on '*The Nature and Design of the Atonement." 
Andrew T. Pratt, on ** The Gospel the true Remedy for Social Evils." 
HxNRT M. CoLTON, ou ** Low Yiews of God's Sincerity in the Offers of the Gk)8peL** 
Henry M. Haskell, on " Christianity not a Failure." 
Charles H. Bollard, on ** The Political Duties of Christians." 
John Edicands, on ** The Just Defense of Truth." 
William Aitchison, on ** Jesuit Missions to the Heathen." 
Charles O. Reynolds, on " The Intellectual Tendency of Christianity." 


Business meetings of the Literary Societies were held before dinner on Wednesday, 
for the purpose of maturing the plans for a new building upon the College ground, 
which shall contain the Society Halls. At four o'clock the members again assem- 
bled in their respective halls for the interchange of friendly feelings. 

In Linonia, Hon. Julius Rockwell of Pittsfield presided and Rev. S. W. S. Dutton 
acted as Secretary. Among the speakers were the Hon. Daniel Lord, Linus Child, 
JolioB Rockwell, and Lafayette S. Foster, Professors Olmsted, Lamed, and Porter, 
Bey. Messrs. Eldridge and Dutton, J. G. E. Lamed and W. D. Bishop, Esqs. and 
Homer B. Sprague, the undergraduate president. 

In the ** Brothers," Hon. John A. Rockwell, of Norwich, presided, and H. B. Har- 
rison, of New Haven, was appointed Secretary. Amon^ the speakers were the 
Hon. A N. Skinner, Mayor of the city, Hon. Asa Bacon, John A RockweU, Pro- 
feasors Dutton and Thatcher, Rev. Dr. Vale, Rev. S. B. S. Bissell, S. E. Morse, of 
the New York Observer, Dwight Foster, and Wm. H. Richards, Esqs., and Wm. 
Boies, the undergraduate president. 

In CalUope, James Atwood, the undergraduate president, presided. Speeches 
vere made by Rev. S. W, Magill, Dr. John S. Adams, T. L. Bayne, Esq., John 
Murdock, Russell Smith, R A. Henson and others. 


The pablio exercises of this Society took place in the North Church on Wednes- 
day eyening. Hon. Henry White presided and Rev. Wm. Adams, D. D., opened tho 
meeting with prayer. Daniel Lord, LL. D., of New York City, then deliycred an 
Oration ** On tiie extra-professional Influence of the Bar and the Pulpit." He was 
followed by Alfred B. Street, Esq., of Albany, with a Poem on " The Pilgrhn Spirit," 
Both poem and oration have recently been published. 

vou xvii. 5 



This body was permanently organized on Tuesday afternoon. It is composed of 
all those persons now or formerly connected with the Yale Law School and of such 
Honorary members as they may elect Hon. John M. Clayton, of Delaware, was 
chosen Orator for 1852, and the following persons were elected Officers : 

Hon. 0. Bissell, of New Haven, President ; Hon. S. P. Staples, of New York, 
IL L Ingersoll, of Connecticut, E. Bates, of Missouri, J. W. Houston, of Delaware, 
E. A. Nisbit, of Georgia, and L. C. Duncan, of Louisiana, Vice Presidents ; Hon. R 
White, Treas. ; Hon. E. K. Foster, Cor. Secretary ; and the Librarian of the Law 
School Ex- Officio Rec Secretary. 


The morning and afternoon of Thursday were occupied with the exercises of the 
Graduating Class — held, as usual, in the Centre Church. We have before announced 
the '* Appointments" of the Class, and now our limits will only allow of a list (in the 
order of the programme) of the 



Latin Salutatory, by Asher R. Little, Newport, R. L 

" The Mission of Great Men,'* by David B. Temple, Framingham, Mass. 

** Statesmanship as a Profession," by John W. Noble, Columbus, Ohia 

** The Decomposition and Recomposition of the Products of the Mind," by Walter ' 
Frear, Ulysses, N. Y. 

** The Enthusiasm of the Naturalist," by David L. Judson, Birmingham. 

** Gustavus Adolphus," by Charles A Baer, Lancaster, Penn. 

"Bneigy," by W. J. Maltby, Bangor, Me. 

" Spain in her Glory," by James S. Hoyt, New Canaan. 

** Order," by John R. Thurston, Bangor, Maine. 

''Napoleon and Wellington at Waterloo," by Wm. A. Atlee, Lancaster, Pa. 

** The Progress of the Mind in the Knowledge of Material Things — illimitable," 
by Edward Hungerford, Wolcottville. 

" Americans the Keepers of their Liberty," by Richard J. Haldeman, Harrisborgfa, 

"Pulpit Eloquence," by Augustus H. Carrier, Bridgeport 

"The Theoretical Reformer," by Salmon McCall, Lebanon. 

" Scottish S<»ig," by Joseph Sheldon, Watertown, N. Y. 

The "Supernatural Element in HumanBelief^" Philosophical OratioD, by WiUiam 
W. Winthrop, New Haven. 


" Philosophy and Revelation," Philosophical Oration, by Rufus C. Cramptoo, 

" Chaucer and his Age," by Horatio W. Brinsmade, Troy, N. Y. 

« Malheurs de T Acadie," by Richard C. Stiles, West Chester, Pa. 

« The Four Monarchies," by William De Forest Manice, New York City. 

"The Islet Grave," a Poem, by Timothy C. Downie, South Grove, Walworth 
County, Wisconsin. 


" The Old Federal Party," by Calvin H. Carter, Waterbury. 

" Hugh Miller and the Development Hypothesis,'* by Henry H. Jessap, Montrose 

** The Vital Power of the Imagination," by Henry Loomis, New Haven. 

*' The literary Element in National Greatness," Philosophical Oration, by James 
G. Yose, Milton, Mass. 

" The Love of Truth, as a Passion of the Soul," with the Valedictory Address, 
bj Thomas S. Potwine, East Windsor. 

The Degree of Bachelor of Arts was conferred on ninety-one graduates, and it 
was also voted by the Corporation to Albert Hebard, so that his name might ap- 
pear upon the Triennial Catalogue with those of his classmates. The degree of 
Master of Arts in course, was conferred on twenty-eight persons ; the honorary 
degree of Bachelor of Arts was conferred on two, and that of Master of Arts on two* 
The Music during the day was performed by the Italian Opera Band of N. Y. 
Seven members of the Law School received the degree of Bachelor of Laws, and 
twelve persons received the degree of Doctor of Medicine. No one received the 
degree of D. D. or LL. D. 

At noon the graduates and members of the graduating class dined together upon 
tiie College grounds, and in the evening there was the usual Levee at the house of 
President Woolsey. 

The classes of 1821, 1826, 1841, and 1848 had meetings during the week, and 
Beveral of the Class Societies held their annual conventions. 


The College year opened, as usual, with the strife of our Literary Societies. All 
the zealous interest and warm enthusiasm which can be conceived as belonging to 
antagomsts in any cause, is displayed in these electioneering contests. Every man 
is a partisan, responsible in a measure for the success or defeat of his chosen So- 
ciety ; and the hurrying to and fro — the ' special meetings' — the whispering between 
oommittee men — the eager eyes which watch the freshman's every step about the 
College — the long walks and longer arguments — the glowing panegyric passed upon 
the one, and the withering sarcasm and unmingled contempt lavished upon the 
other Society, are some of the indications of the earnestness and life of party strife 
in College. 

The campaign closed, in accordance with a long established and far-famed custom, 
with the " Statement of Facts" — peculiar, we believe, to the Societies of Yale. 
The exercises of the day were celebrated in Brewster's Hall, and attended by a 
large and enthusiastic audience. The claims of Linonia were presented in the 
morning by H. B. Sprague and W. Stanley of the Senior Class, and C. L. Thomas 
of the Junior Class ; and those of the Brothers in the afternoon by W. Boies and 
11 Houghton of the Senior Class, and W. P. Aiken of the Junior Class. 

It does not become us in giving a record of the facts to make any criticism upon, 
or comparison between any of the performances of the day ; it is sufficient to say — 
that each party, as usual, seemed satisfied that the truth and merit belonged to 
them, and the falsehood and demerit to their opponents. It may be pleasing to our ' 
graduate readers, who have often listened to these speeches, to know that the patri- 
otism and worth of Nathan Hale and David Humphreys were eulogized in glowing 


torme, that statistics of great men were giyen with their usual discrepancies, and 
the membership of John 0. Oalhoun was still the subject of fierce and eloquent 
debate. , 

In the erening, the new comers became Linonians, Brothers or Calliopeana. And 
it is amusing to observe the Freshman, who a few hours before was puzzled how to 
decide or indifferent as to the result, now a warm, enthusiastic partisan and a 
devoted admirer of the Society he has selected. 

The result of the recent campaign may be fairly summed up by saying that 
liinonia and the Brothers gained an equal share of the Class, and Calliope her usual 
iramber of southern students. 


, "We have to chronicle a movement of more than ordinary interest to our College 
Societies, and which more particularly affects the Calliopeaa It is the withdrawal 
of the Southern members from the Linonian and Brothers Societies and their admis- 
lion into Calliope. By means of this change, Calliope has gained seventeen active 
and three honorary members, and has drawn more definitely the sectional differences 
of the students. Her prospects however have not been brighter for a long time 
than they are at present, and the best wishes of the students generally go with her, 
i<x her success and usefulness as a Society. The present number of Calliopeaos 
18 63. 


On Wednesday evening, Oct. 8th, an oration was delivered in the Linonia Society 
by Henry E. Dwight of the Senior Class. Subject — ^" The Boundless Fold or 

On Wednesday evening, Oct 16th, an Oration was delivered before the Linoniaa 
Society, (the members of the Brothers and Calliope being present by invitation,) hy 
Daniel C. Oilman, of the Senior Class. His subject was ** The pecuuab cladis 
OF Yale College to the love and admiration of its Undergraduate Students.'* 

On the same evening an Oration was delivered to the Brothers in Unity — the 
other two Societies being present — ^by Delano A. Goddard of the Junior Class. 
Subject—** The Uses of Talent." 


The Second Election of the Collegiate year took place in Linonia and the Brothers, 
Wednesday evening, Oct. 16th. 

LmoNiA. Brothers nr Unity. 

Wm.B. Ro88> Edward Houghtoa 

Vice Presidents. 
Daniel C. Oilman, Albert Bigelow. 

H. H. McFarland, Delano A. Goddard. 

Vice Secretaries. 
0. C. Sparrow, J. Warren Wilson. 


We have been kindly furnished with a somewhat extended account of the 1^^^ 
tour of Prof. Silliman and party, but we are sorry to say it came too late for tn^e^^ 


■ I ■ > II ■ 111. II* 

tioD in this number. Without interfering at all with the article of our friedd we 
viU just give the reader their route, leaving the details for another number. 

Prof Silliman, Sen., in company with Prof. Silliman, Jr., and others, making a 
pArtf of seven in all, sailed last spring in the steamer Baltic, for the purpose of 
yiaitiog the principal countries of Europe. After spending a fortnight in England, 
they passed over to France, remaining in Paris the same length of time. Thenoe 
they went to Marsailles and thence to Qenoa. They then visited Rome and after- 
wards Naples, where they ascended Vesuvius. A portion of the company then 
▼ent to Sicily, attempting, though not accomplishing, the ascent of Mount Etna, it 
bdng too early in the season. Returning to Naples, the whole party, after visiting 
the principal cities of Italy, proceeded to Switzerland. Thence they went to Ger- 
many and Prussia, then to Paris and then to England, whence they sailed for this 
ooontry in September. 

Professor Silliman was warmly greeted on his return by the students, as those of 
them who were present at his opening lecture will remember. 


The annual foot ball strife between the Sophomores and Freshmen took plaoe 
upon the Green in front of the State House on Wednesday afternoon, Oct 8th. The 
day was pleasant and the spectators quite numerous. Students of the upper 
classes, as also others, thronged the steps of the State House, or leaned against the 
iron fence, while the ladies gazed from the neighboring windows to witness the per- 
formance of this time honored custom. A large portion of the afternoon was con- 
samed in contentious discussions between the two classes relative to the appoint- 
ment of umpires. The Freshmen finally carried the point, and three umpires from 
the graduates present were selected. 

The HeMng, when commenced, was expeditiously performed and resulted — as is 
usual in the Foot Ball game — in a victory for the Sophomores. 

A fine boquet was sent to the victors from some one of the fair spectators, 
which was acknowledged by the Class. 

In the evening the Sophomores assembled upon the State House steps and, assist- 
ed by a band of music, held a Class pounoow, 


The Trumbull Gallery has lately received a new ornament, by no means inferior 
to the best of its old ones. It is a portrait of Professor Noah Porter, done by Mr. 
David Huntington of New York, and procured at an expense of two hundred and 
fifty dollars, by the class of 1861. As to the merits of the paintmg, it is enough to 
say that it was executed by the eminent gentleman just mentioned. If succeeding 
classes have the generosity to keep up this excellent custom, and the taste to secure 
the best artist that the country may afford, the College will eventually have a col- 
lection as creditable to the contributors and as rich in historical associations, as 
Oxford or Cambridge. 

38 editor's tablk. [Oct. 

amat'B Sable. 

It was oar intention, reader, to have a good long talk with yoa here, a nice little 
UU-a-tete, and what has prevented ns from so doing the devil only knows. For our 
own part we can saj that we had made every arrangement to bring about a '* oonver- 
sation so devoutlj to be wished,*' so that the cause of the disappointment is not to 
be attributed to us. As the case is, we can onlj teU you what we were intending 
to say to you. And as you run over the bill of fare, tell us if you don't think that 
we should make good caterers if we had the opportunity. We were in the first 
place to give you an account of a ride we had in a stage coach. Now don't writhe 
and twist about in that easy chair of yours as though it were up in arms at the 
mere mention of such a lumbering vehicle as a stage coach, — ^we did not intend to 
take you bodily with us. Only in imagination would we have placed yon by 
cor side, to listen to the stories of the olden time, coming from the lips of one of 
former days — to notice with us how the voice heightened and the eye lighted up as 
the scenes of other years were recounted, when he, a youngster of some eight or 
ten years, with his little hatchet in his hand clung to his father's knees and besought 
him to take his little boy with him, — ^when the wife bid the husband go and fight 
for his country and leave her and her little ones in the midst of a howling wilder- 
ness to defend themselves and their home as best they could from the savage 
wolf and the equally savage Indian. We would have had you listen with us to 

a recital of college scenes in times of yore, when the venerable Dr. R of 

H was the /r^aAman of our fellow traveler. And when a gentleman on the 

front seat, a graduate of some thirty years standing remarked the great apparent 
disparity of ages between the former and the latter — we would have had you 
hear with us a philosohphical reason for it, and in the same connection a few words 
of counsel to us, advising us, if we wished to live happily through life and to come 
to a green old age, to take to ourselves a companion, one who will share with us 
our pleasures and divide with us our sorrows — who will smooth for our feet the 
rugged highway of life and beguile for us its tediousness, (" Comes jucimdus in via 
pro vehiculo est.") We would have had you see also our approving smile as we 
winked an acquiescence to a bright eyed lad near us. We would, moreover, reader, 
have had you hear from the same source an account of a certain examination in 
optics in the Geological Chamber, ('twas not in our division,) how the question was 
asked, " What kind of lenses do old people require?" and how the Junior answered, 
** Concave lenses, sir." But perhaps you were there yourself ; if so we would by 
DO means have had you hear this account of it 

But enough of this — we will merely say, that a short ride in a stage coadi with 
pleasant companions is far from being a tedious afi&iir. And especially is it agreea- 
ble with such company as we have spoken of above. And even when you are an 
entire stranger to all about ^ou, it is pleasing to notice the different ways of differ- 
ent people — one so retired that he will hardly answer civilly a question civilly 
put, another affitble and smiling as a May morning, and a third with a tongue like a 
trip-hammer. An exhibition of these and a thousand other peculiarities a stage ride 
will furnish to a mind at all given to observation. 

We had for you, in the next place, good reader, a pretty little coterie of stories— 

1851.] editor's table. 39 

some we will venture to say you never heard, why ? because we made them up for 
the occasion. And then we were going to give you reports of several editoiial 
meetmgs, — one in particular would have been interesting, when the principal topics 
of discussion were Ootisin, Held, Lectures, Recitations, College Societies, and Ladies* 
Society, and so forth, &c^ et cetera and so on. We had a word or two to say about 
athletic games in general and the foot ball game in particular. We had intended to 
expatiate at large on the past history, present condition and future prospects of our 
Magazine, now entering on the seventeenth voluma And in the last place to offer 
a word of expostulation, coupled with a gentle objurgation, to Non-CorretpondenU — 
to those who thizik that editing a Magazine is like sailing on a smooth silvery sea — 
(it is a smooth sea, no roclcB and a plenty of toind.) But we have no room for these, 
for we must pay a little 


" Starlight" we decline. It is too feeble to enlighten our readers in the least 
Perhaps however the author may think, that as it has been filed for insertion many 
times since he first sent it to the editorial corps, mere attrition would have caused 
it to shine with something approaching to splendor. Such we assure him is not 
the fact, for it is with poetry as the poet says it is with friction matches, 

*< No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match, 
K the fiz doesn't follow the primitive scratch.*' 

Yet lest we do the author injustioe^ we extract a verse or two. 

There is a star in the west, 
It shines o'er a mighty river, 
(Mississippi, we suppose.) 

When man has gone to his nightly rest. 
And the leaves in the night wind quiver. 

It shineth on through the hours of night, 

Undimmed in its silent beauty, 
'Till the moon hangs pale in the morning light, 

And man goes forth to duty. 

A new astronomical discovery, we find. Stars which appear in the west at evening 
iu% not generally found there when " the moon hangs pale in the morning light." 
If the discoverer will point out this bright particular star to us some morning when 
▼6 are " going forth to duty," well give him — we'll give him — why — most any 
thing— why, we'll give him, if he will call at our sanctum, '< Our Grandsire's Home,** 
that other article which he wrote for us. 

"The Greek Slave" is good in the main, and had we not seen with our own eyes 
that "model from Almighty hands," we should be inclined to publish it But as the 
case is we are disposed to say with the writer of the piece, * 

** O ! ne'er can pen from mortal hand 
Do justice to thy priceless worth 1" 

" The Foot Ball" is an inflated thing, in our opinion, and so bounds about from 
one thing to another that it is a very difficult matter sometimes to keep track of it 

40 editor's tadle. 

Its cant is the only feature about it wortliy of notice. With this passing kick wa 
put it over for the present. 

The author of " The Keverie** states to us that his aim ia to do good. We irill do 
all in our power to forward so praiseworthy an object To that end (as we are 
full) we advise him to publish his production in pamphlet form iar distribntioa 
through college. It might do a vast amount of good. 

" TaU oaks from little acorns grow." 

" H. A. N.** will please accept our tlianks for his favor which appears in the pres- 
ent number. We bespeak a continuance of such favors, and hope that otlier gradu- 
ates will follow his example. 

From " B. W. G." we should be happy to hear again. 

" Neptune," our readers will observe, (page 1 2,) has been " swapping horses." He 
has exchanged that " ^gean mare/' on which he and ^Eneas were tossed, fat i 
Pegasus. It is a disputed point, we believe, among critics whether Neptune 
the originator of tlie horse, yet that the Pegasus employed on this occasion was 
of his own manufacture will not bo doubted. But this is not the only trick he hat 
been up to. He has turned punster. Ye gods ! Neptune a punster I Bad puDi 
too he makes. But then 'tis nothing strange, considering their origin, that they 
should be Trit-ons. 

The communication of " Delta" was received at too late an hour. We hare not 
examined it closely, but should think from a casual inspection that the author, by 
' taking pains, might write very good poetry. 


The usual list of College exchanges has been received; — the "Qeorgia Uuivenitj 
Magazine," the ** Nassau Literary Magazine," and the Jefferson Monument "Magtr 
zine." The Nassau Literary is deserving of notice from its neat, tasty appearanee, 
as well as the ability of its articles ; and the Qeorgia University Magazine for 
a most unusual circumstance with College periodicals — its punctuality. A haaty 
glance over their respective Editor's Tables shows us that the same tronblei 
and perplexities which so harross us in providing for the literary wonts of our fellov 
students are also with them. The same coll upon contributors for good, readable 
articles, and the response answered with a flood of poor, worthless poetical scrib 
blings ; we hear the same demand fur pai/ that we so often make, and the Editon 
ntter the same murmurs of discontent 

We have also received two numbers of tlie Ohio Teacher. 

We would call attention to the improved typographical appearance of oar Magir 
sine. Our printer has given us new type and a better quality of paper. Old Qor- 
emor Yale has washed his face, combed his wig, and brushed his clothes, and noiw 
looks out upon us, as if intending to make a long tarry with the students of the insti* 
tution bearing his name. This, however, depends on how you treat him. And, we 
assure you, fellow students, it would not much surprise us if some day he shoukl 
become so dissatisfied with your treatment that ho would retire from these scenes 
forever. We certainly should advise him to take such a course, if we were to speak 
to him privately. 

JEJiToto.— On page 31, in the first colamn marked Fresh., lecond, third and fourth Uaaa, for ** jHi 
.63, .62/' read /», .08, .03. 

4 THE 


Vol. XVII. NOVEMBER, 1851. No. II. 

9i)t ClatntB of Hale (£o\[t%t to tl)e Hrgarlr of Mb StnUmts.^ 

* In ihe good old colony times,' when William III reigned over Great 
Britain, and Gen. Jolm Wintlirop was Governor of his Majesty's domin- 
ions in Connecticut; when Jjouis XIV held his voluptuous court in 
France, and Peter the Great was blessing Russia witli his energetic labors; 
when the fellow-chieftains of Uncas traversed the plains around us, and 
the few Pilgrim Europeans who had made their home within this State 
were less than seventeen thousand ; before a Post Office had been opened, 
or a newspaper established on this uncivilized side of the waters — a little 
stream of its own accord came bubbling from the ground to cheer and 
fertilize these barren lands, and a morning star arose in the East to shed 
its light upon the darkness then prevailing, to usher in the day. 

That stream then feeble, narrow, scarcely overcoming the obstacles 
which it encountered, now broad and deep flows majestically along, — that 
star then twinkling in the sky is now a brilliant sun enlightening and 
invigorating both tliis and other lands. Need I say that stream, that 
star, is the Institution of which we all arc members. 

England was tlicn reveling in the days of its greatest literary glory. 
About that time, Locke was writing his Essays on the Human Mind, 
Sishop Butler was investigating the Analogies of Religion, Newton was 
developing his profound Pnncipia, Uooke, Rapin and Middleton were 
compiling their Historical works, Addison and Steele were entertain^ 
ing their readers with the shrewd Spectator's comments ; Dr}"den, Pope, 

* Ad Oration delivered on Wednesday evening, October 15th, 1851, before tho 
linonian Society, — the Brothers and CalUopeans being present by invitation. 
vou xvu. 6 


Watts and Young were displaying thvir poetic fire ; wliile Halley the 
Astronomer, South the Serinonizer, Bolingbroke, Pamell, Pefoe and Prioi 
and Berkeley were gaining eminence in their various departments. 

Literature, having risen in the East, had been slowly traveling round 
the globe, and having in its progress cast its invigorating rays successivelj 
on Western Asia, Greece and Rome, was at tlie time we speak of pouriDg 
a flood of light upon the British Isles ; while its forerunning rajrs, appear- 
ing in our morning sky, had, like tlio early twilight, betokened coming 

Such, in very general terms, was the condition of the world arounc 
when the plan of founding a college within this colony was conceived 
matured and carried out For years the idea was well discussed, and a* 
length, in 1700, ten ministers, bringing what offerings their hbrariei 
could spare, assembled at the town of Branford, and there establishac 
this college in those words which may well be cut in letters of stone aa< 
placed upon the Library, " We give these books to fouxd a colleoi 
IH THIS colony." 

Those of us who were upon these grounds some fifteen months Bgc 
beheld a very different scene, — not indeed more interesting, but some 
what more imposing. We saw many hundred sons of our Alma Mste 
assembled to commemorate the third of her semi-centennials. Old an< 
young, rich and poor, came back to show their love for Yale, and to r€ 
new the memories of other days. 

They came — a band from the prairie land, 
From the granite hills dark frowning, 

From the lakelet blue and the broad bayon, 
From the snows our pine-peaks crowning ; 
And they poured the song in joy along. 
For the hours were bright before them, 
And grand and hale were the elms of Yale^ 
Like fathers bending o*er them I 
A noble throng, they made the song 
Eoll on in the hours before them. 
While high and hale were the towers of Yale, 
liike giants, watching o'er them I 

This recent festival and that founding of the college, stand before ^ 
now as eras, each a convenient center around which we may circumscribe 
a circle, a lofty eminence from which we may view the surrounding r& 
gion. Wo propose, accordingly, from tliese two points of view to loo* 
at what Yale College was and at what it is. 


And, first, what was Yale College when it started ? We can almost, 
but not^ quite, adopt the language of the Harvard poet, who asked a 
kindred question, and answered it himself, about his Alma Mater: — 

Pray, who was on the catalogue 

When college was begun ? 
Two nephews of the President, 

And the Professor's son ; 
(They turned a little Indian by, 

As brown as any bun,) 
Oh, how the Senior's kicked about 

That Freshman class of one 1 

Our be^nnings were even on a different scale from theirs. During 
its first six months, Yale College, with its rector, a man of such attain- 
ments as to be the sole instructor, and its ten trustees, with its formal 
charter from the Colonial Legislature, with its forty folio, volumes in its 
library, was moreover blessed with one single student^ by name Jacob 
Heminway! While Harvard's motto inight well have been "Rari 
nantes in gurgite vasto," ours rather would have read, " Solus cum solo,** 
Picture him, ye admirers of William Wickham ! and ye non-admirers — 
if any such there be — picture Heminway, I say, not as the senior mem- 
ber of a flourishing society, but as the sole embodiment of college stu- 
dents ! Behold him exhibiting in one form, the plain and inoffensive 
manners of the Freshman of those days — the haughty bearing of the 
Sophomore, the Junior's condescension, and the grave demeanor of the 
Senior ; — standing high, undoubtedly, in the estimation of the class, and 
without rival in the eyes of the Faculty. Tradition adds, that his disputes 
before thePresident were exceedingly unique. He swept off all the honors 
of the day, received the Valedictory, and might have been " first President** 
if he had planned for it in time ! To avoid the inconveniences which then 
attended Freshman life, he entered Sophomore, and in three years was 
graduated, having undergone, as it is supposed, two hard " biennials," 
^bereat he was carefully separated from all other members of his class, 
a^d was closely watched by two members of an examining committee 
appointed for the purpose ; but so well did he acquit himself, as to merit 
^Q approbation of all, for, like the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitol 
Hill at Rome, there was no second to him ; but, unlike that temple, he 
^lad no third nor fourth nor fifth I 

There was then no School of Science and the Arts, no Law, Theological 
or Medical department, no prizes, no customs, no catalogues, and no laws; 
^0 tutors, no professors, no edifice, no permanent location, and no name ; 
but in one instructor and one pupil we see the University of 1700 1 


But what is College now ? Wo may here adapt to our own use the 
familiar words of another, and say that " the same sky is indeed over our 
heads, and the same waters roll at our feet ; but all else, how changed P 
Thrice fifty years have passed away, and the forty volumes have increased 
to over fifty thousand ; the one presiding ofiicer is supported by nearly 
forty, statedly employed ; where forests grew before, thirteen substantial 
buildings stand, from which the bell each morning summons (with some 
exceptions, I admit) four hundred undergraduates ; four departments be- 
side the College proper, furnish to many scores of older students instruc- 
tion in the higher range of science ; and six thousand men having here 
completed a course of study in " the liberal Arts,** now rank as gradu* 
ates of Yale. 

But I will not dwell upon a picture with which each one of you is so 
familiar. C^ these six thousand graduates, one half yet live ; and of 
these, one thousand gathered at the recent celebration. No one who was 
present then could have failed to notice the enthusiasm which prevailed, 
the pleasant meetings of classmates long and widely separated, the cor- 
dial greetings which were paid to the College officers, and the hunting 
Up of rooms and places which were years before familiar ; and when the 
multitude had dined around the common table of their Alma Mater, and 
a time was given for the expression of their feelings, not only in wit and 
poetry and eloquence did their sympathies find vent, but in the soul- 
stirring strains of music and the loud and hearty cheers. 

It is not merely on state-occasions like this, that the love of Yale dis- 
plays itself, but graduates and undergraduates exhibit it in a thousand 
different ways. Behold the former returning statedly in such numbers 
to their various class-meetings, ten, thirty, and even fifty years from grad- 
uation, and whether present or absent delighted to hear of the wel- 
fare of Yale, and eager to speak her praises. What makes the jurist, 
tired and weary with his public life, return to the Academic shades, and 
stroll around to find the faces of those who once knew him and the 
places he once knew ? What makes the Reveries of a Bachelor turn 
back to college as * the noon' of his life ? What makes the poet linger 
here for inspiration and find it in these college haunts ? Behold the un- 
dergraduates, moreover, possessed of an esprit du corps which makes them 
all desire to aid, befriend and counsel one another, to preserve memorials 
of college life, and when the day of parting comes, to part with real fra- 
ternal feelings. Tell me, both graduates and undergraduates, is it nottru^ 
that the simple words " Yale College" are always enough to draw your im- 
mediate attention ? When away from this place, let the dryest speaker bu* 


introduce Yale College, and do you not instantly give heed ? If you 
meet the words in the dullest book, or see them in an ultra paper of the 
ne-plus-ultra stamp, do they not serve as an instant catchword, and are 
you satisfied until you know why your Alma Mater has been thus al- 
luded to? 

Are not your sympathies more easily awakened for one in public life, 
whose name may be found on the triennial ? and do you not lament a 
death more keenly, because the life was past at Yale, and the number of 
your brothers therefore has been lessened ? Yes, I am sure you all will 
bear me witness, that Yale College is to your hearts the magic * Open 
Sesame ? of the eastern tale, the countersign to which your sentinel gives 
instant heed. Men who have been educated here, may seal their heart* 
against the stranger's approach — they may firmly lock with * permutation 
£sistening8' each entrance to their feelings, but if you wish to know what 
arrangement of the letters of the key will fiing back th^ bolts and open 
vide the door, you will see it in the four which form that suggestive and 
potent word of Yale/ 

What now, we ask, has caused this state of things ? 

First may be mentioned the History of this Institution^ which, ex- 
tending through so many years, and embracing so many topics of in- 
terest, may well be examined with pleasure, and regarded with pride. I 
blow indeed of no local historical topic which would repay you better 
for a careful study. The College — not forced at once into a brilliant exist- 
ence, but adapted to the wants of a feeble colony, not flashing up with 
periodic light, but steadily increasing, growing as the country grew, and 
strengthening with its strenth, ever progressing and never retrograding, 
sustained not so much by munificent donations as by a rigid economy 
of Aose it did receive, poor yet knowing how to use its means, young 
and yet abounding in enterprise — presents in the record of its hundred 
and fifty years, a series of important events, and of entertaining indldeuts 
of great variety and stirring interest 

Secondly — the list of graduates hence sent forth, deserves considera- 
tion ; and if it be right and pleasant to trace a goodly line of ancestors in 
the flesh, ib it not almost as pleasant to trace the line of those who here 
piKceded us, and who passed their days of youth in scenes and in duties 
80 similar to those in which we are now engaged. K we take a lauda- 
ble pleasure in claiming nationality with Washington and Franklin, if 
^^aie eager to claim as ours all English writers previous to our existence 
^ a nati(m, if we take delight in all eminent men who speak the An^o^ 
Saxon t<Higae, may we not, with far more propriety, claim as our fathers 


and our elder brothers, those who have gone before us in this school of 
literature ! Iftt not the momentary exceptions wliich we are tempted to 
make at the times of our annual strife as literary Societies, prevent us in 
our calmer moo^ from giving all their due. I honor David Humphreys 
none the less because I love old William Wickham, Nathan Hale and 
others somewhat more. There is Percival as a poet, Calhoun as a states- 
man, Webster as a lexicographer, Kent as a Jurist, James Fennimore 
Cooper as a writer, David Brainard as a missionary, Jonathan Edwards 
as a metaphysician, of whom, each one of us should say without any 
TOservation, are they not ours, all ours ? 

I might for a third topic, dwell upon the present means of instruction 
we enjoy ; of the course of study and the oflScers who conduct it ; of the 
various aids we find in the library, the laboratory, the cabinet, the observ- 
atory, th« apparatus, the gallery of paintings ; but these are daily before 
your eyes, and I will not dwell either upon their intrinsic or their relative 
excellence, for you yourselves can judge whether, even though faults and 
imperfections may sometimes be detected, there is not much, very mudi, 
which we should regard with admiration. 

Once more : th£ large number of students here assembled, is a great 
advantage to each of us. Look around, and you see more than four 
hundred undergraduates, young, intelligent, active men. Who of you 
wants a nobler field for emulation, or seeks for higher honors than those 
which here are offered ? How great a diversity appears of natural sym- 
pathies, and tastes, and inclinations ? and that, among those who are in 
many respects so similar in their circumstances, so nearly of an age, and so 
equal in their attainments. How sure we are to find proficients in almost 
every science and accomplishment, how bright the talents often exhibited, 
how various the intimacies which are so freely offered ! 

HheD. too we are not gathered from a single town, nor a single state, 
nor even from the same section of our land, but North and South here 
learn of one another; East and West may join their hands. Not 
only does every portion of our own confederacy send hither its quota, 
but at the present moment we see Canada sending her represenative and 
Nova Scotia also ; England, Scotland, Ireland, and Germany appear with 
theirs ; South America here studies science, and the Islands of the sea 
help swell our numbers ; the Turkish dominions send no less than four, 
and even China consents to learn at the feet of * outside barbarians.' 

We are not indeed to think that excellence consists merely in size and 
diversity, for the number and variety of students will be no advantage, 
unless a rigid series of examination like that which now prevails, shall 
malra an occasional sifting and keep the standard hig||L 


In the next place, I would mention our three literary Societies, not- 
withstanding that the claims of two of them have been so recently ar- 
gued. I stand here at the present moment as an advocate for the pe- 
culiarities of neither, but I beg you to consider how the influence of 
the large number of students in college is felt within our society halls. 
In each how spirited the debates may be, and how well may be compared 
the diflferent views of every question. The avowed rivalry between Lino- 
nians and Brothers — as all in their calmer moments must admit — is also an 
advantage to them both, and even the neutrality, of Calliope is not with- 
out its influence in aiding on the others, while it is a proud thing for Yale 
that it can so handsomely sustain three societies of the magnitude of 
those which now exist. Too much can scarcely be said of their libra- 
ries, 80 well stocked in general literature, so munificently increased, so 
carfiilly guarded. Selected according to the wants of students, bought 
with our own money, and subject to our own regulations, they are the 
laurel wreaths of the undergraduates of college, imperishable crowns by 
which we have adorned the institution to which we belong. 

Again : I call your attention to the smaller literary associations which 
here exist, the * class societies,^ as they are called ; and although it will 
not be expected that I should enlarge on such a theme, yet I may be al- 
lowed to say, that so far as my acquaintance goes, they are both profitable 
and pleasant. Liable to abuse as these and all things good may be, yet 
even a casual observer can scarcely overlook the advantages they possess, 
in uniting together those whom the rivalries of the large societies would 
render hostile through the year, and those whom sectional and other 
differences might keep entirely apart. 

I must be excused for mentioniug another thing, the credit of which 
pertains by no means to any class alone, much less to any portion of a 
class. I refer to the Yale Literary Magazine, which, whether dry or racy 
to its readers, has been of lasting service to those who have written for 
its pages. It contains the essays of young writers, but if you will study 
out the names of its contributors in by-gone years, you will see the 
names of many who have since been honored in far wider circles. I am 
not aware of any similar Magazine which has been sustained so long, 
while the various volumes, standing as they do upon the shelves of the 
several libraries, may be considered as fair specimens of what Yale un- 
dergraduates have accomplished with their pens. If all the classes would 
hut do their best for its support, the Magazine might soon attain a high- 
er rank, and by a larger number of writers, readers and subscribers would 


increase its pesent advantages, by famuhing a field of emulation still 
gieater than it does at present 

In the next place, consider the various colUgt customs — ^not those 
boyish tricks sometimes handed down from class to dass, but those local 
peculiarities which have been for years perpetuated, and which are of 
oedit to the Institution. 

Such is the " Annual Presentation,^ with its attendant exerdses. The 
£tfewell speeches oi that day are more heartfelt, and more impressive 
than those at graduation, for these are of our own accord, and are ut- 
tefed among acquaintances alone, while the others, from the nature of the 
case, must be in a measure constrained and formaL The after dinner 
sports of Presentation Day, moreover, are not without their use, when 
those just to be recognized as men, for the last time indulge with a sort 
of lingering regret in frolicsome pastimes. 

The annual statement of facts, and the concomitant electioneering, are 
of admirable tendency in more ways than one. The historical research 
evinced on such occasions, the skill displayed in arguing nice points, the 
knowledge which is exhibited of Human Nature, and the tact which is 
there developed, are indications that these electioneering campaigns are 
of almost incalculable service. 

The presentation of the Wooden Spoon, freed as it is hoped forever 
from anything exceptionable^ although an ' edged tool' which should be 
managed with care, has been, and may permanently be an outlet for real 
wit, an innocent occasion of mirth and recreation. 

But it will not be possible for me to allude, much less to dwell, on all 
the various points which seem to me of interest, and I must therefore 
hasten on. Our boat clubs, however, must not be overlooked, for the re- 
freshing pleasures they afford in summer evenings cannot well be prized 
too highly, while the athletic games upon ' the Green,' time honored and 
raluable as they are, are so much appreciated by those who engage in 
them, that I need not expatiate upon their praises. 

The books of autographs, comprehensive as they are and embellished 
to such an extent with the portraits of College officers and perhaps of 
classmates also, form no small item in the literature of Yale ; and when 
the formal words of false, unmeaning flattery are not employed, but a 
few suggestive sentences bring to remembrance scenes which classmates 
have enjoyed together, or when, in lieu of this, a word of council or of 
cheer is given, then books of autographs possess a real and a yearly in- 
creasing value. 

The attention here paid to music is moreover deserving of note, exhib- 


ited as it is not merely in the singing of a clioir skillfully trained and 
accompanied with the organ's swelling tones, but manifested in the 
chorus which daily rises upon every side and from every company of stu- 
dents. Occasionally, with a chorus not unworthy of a German univer- 
sity, we join in singing 

Gaudeamus igitur 

Juvenes dum sumaSy 

while you well know that not an event occurs, from the foot ball game 
to a successful * biennial,' without some original song in its commemora- 
tion, — not a society but has its ample private collection. 

There are many, moreover, in our midst who rejoice to say that in the 
Church which here exists and in the special privileges which it has fur- 
nished, they have found those ties which bind them more closely than any 
other to their college home, and from which they break with more reluctance. 

Now, fellow students, do you ask why I have dwelt so long upon these 
things with which you are all acquainted, instead of choosing a more 
novel and perhaps more pleasing topic ? There are two reasons. 

First, because we see here and there among our number one who has 
not a particle of college spirit, who seems to care no more for his class- 
mates and for the things in which they take delight, than he does in a 
wandering Tartar tribe. They are human beings, and as such he has an 
interest in them, but he feels no bond of union, no glow of sympathy, no 
desire to improve for his own and their advantage the intimacies which 
we are so frilly offered. He lives a stranger in the midst of those who 
would be friends, a blind man in a paradise of beauty, a proser in a 
world of poetry ; he longs to be free from his present position, and when 
he goes he will tell to others that college is after all a sort of tread-mill 
bondage. Is this honorable or right, in one who might enjoy so many 
pleasures without a particle of detriment to his mental discipline ? 

But, secondly, those of us who enjoy the scenes and the associations in 
which we live do well to pause sometimes and think how much we have 
in which to take delight. We love as brothers those with whom we 
meet, for now as to this world at least. 

Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one, 
Our comforts and our cares ; — 

we already take dehght in the various concomitants of college duties ; 
and appreciate in some degree the enjoyments which here are found, yet 
the occasional review of what we here possess cannot but expand our 
hearts, enlarge our sense of the advantages which we have, and reji^W 
the glow of our love toward Yale. 
VOL. xvn. 7 


For you my aim has been not to awaken such feelings of regard, but 
to show how they may be increased ; to suggest those trains of thought 
which you only can properly expand. I have merely tried to unravel an 
end of the twisted cord which binds us together, that you may see the 
strands of which it is composed. They will amply repay you for a care- 
ful examination. Such studies would not interfere with the severer tasks 
which engage your time ; they would be like way side flowers which 
beautify, but not impede our path, or like the lesser satellites around 
some brilliant planet, they would add their radiance to its own efful- 

And if our advantages are indeed so great, let us sTiow how much 
they are appreciated. If we cannot otherwise improve, let us at least 
adorn and beautify this place ; let art as well as science here be cultiva- 
ted ; let no defacements be allowed ; let elegance as well as excellence 
pertain to every thing around ; let our present noble gallery of paintings 
he increased from year to year ; let the Ubraries, the society halls, our 
private studios, and even the public buildings and the College Green be 
embellished with works of taste. 

To be sure 

There in red brick which Bofteniog time defies, 
Stand square and stiff the muses factories, 

«nd yet our efforts now, and our more ample means hereafter, may do 
much to improve as wibII as to adorn. 

Again, let us hunt up the incidents which have here occurred and as- 
sociate them with the various localities around us, till, as at Oxford, ^* Ad- 
dison's walk" is still remembered, and at West Point the " Garden of 
Kosciusko" receives continual culture ; so we shall point to rooms which 
our eminent men have occupied, to walks they trod and haunts they used 
to love. 

And then I would have each student feel that to him pertains the duty 
of keeping up the college eminence. Not only would I have him de- 
fend its character, but fix)wn on ought which would deteriorate its worth 
or injure abroad its reputation. Let none but worthy precedents be fol- 
lowed, bu{ let every plan which an active imagination can suggest, an 
inventive genius contrive and an enthusiastic love can accomplish, be 
seized, perfected and established, that it may tie us more closely than 
ever to one another and our Alma Mater, and identify us inseparably 
'with all her interests. 

The fire I know is in our breasts, let us fan it into flames. Then shall 
ihe clarion cry of ^^ Yale I" which used to be the rallying shout in times 

1851.] DORTLLA. 51 

of trouble, the watch word in danger, and the paean of victory, be in these 
more peaceful days the countersign of friendship ; and when we have 
left these walls it shall be * a sound from home,' reminding us of early 
pleasures and dear associations, and introducing us to at least three 
thousand kindred spirits. Then shall we show in deeds and words that 

Dam mens grata manet nomen laudesqae Yalenbes 
Cantabmit 80B0LES mianimique PATREsI x>. c. o. 


[The foHowiDg poem hai been founded upon an incident taken from an old legend of Savoy. The 
itoiy of the silver arrow, varioosly modified, has given thrilling interest to more than one proM tale, 
but never before, we think, has it been narrilted in verse.] 

In far off lands, where flows the Rhine, 
'Mid crag and rock and woody pine ; 
Where sunny hill and blooming plain, 
Join with the rugged mountain chain ; 
Where cave and gorge and forest grand. 
Add strength and beauty to the land ; 
There on a lofty cliff, and steep, 
Which overlooks a chasm deep. 
Where oft is heard the torrent's roar, 
A casile stood, in days of yore. 
In aspect stem, of massive form. 
It breathed defiance to the storm. 
Its walls were grim and gray through age, 
And mocked with scorn the foeman's rage ; 
Dark, gloomy, fierce and strong it stood, 
Fit emblem of its master's mood. 

A summer mom is shining bright, 

And tipping with its golden light 

The forest glade and turret spire, 

And fragrance breathes from leaf and briar. 

When early dawn the morning waits, 

Wide opened are the castle gates. 

And soon upon the turf of green. 

The vassals of the land are seen,— > 

The servile peasants of the plain. 

Who till the Baron's proud domain. 

No lordly summons brings them herd, 

Nor dreaded wrath nor servile fear. 


Bat with a lightsome step they throng 
The castle court with shout and song. 
The blushing youth, the maiden fair, 
The laughing child with curly hair, 
The matron and the aged sire, 
Are here with smiles and neat attire. 
And as they join the merry throng) 
And loud huzzas are echoed long, 
With joyous hearts and mirthful glee, 
They hail their yearly jubilee. 

Amid the festive throng is seen 
The Baron Chief, whose lofty mien, 
Whose haughty look and rigid face, 
Proclaim him proudest of his race. 
Beside him stands a being fair, 
Of matchless form and beauty rare; 
His only child — yet so unlike 
She seems as do the rays that strike 
The dim, embattled walls and towers 
In sunshine's soft and golden hours. 
The Baron gaze'd with parent pride 
On this loved being at his side. 
And swore so beautiful an one. 
Was ne'er by bard or minstrel sung. 
And well he might, — with beauty armed. 
Hers was the magic power that charmed ; 
The dark, black eye and flowing hair. 
The blooming cheek so fresh and fair. 
The form of gentleness and grace. 
The blushing beauty of her face, 
Proclaiming loveliness within, 
A sterner soul than his might win. 
While in the form almost divine. 
He sees the last of Rudger s line. 

Dorylla, with an earnest gaze. 

Seeks 'mid the throng who shout her praise, 

Por one she knew full well was there, 

Whose thoughts and wishes she could share. 

She finds him — and their glances meet— 

Nor nearer would they dare to greet. 

For he, though of a noble form, 

A peasant is, and lowly bom ; 

Though strong of arm and brave in heart, 

His father's is the minstrel's art. 

And Badger's is a haughty race. 

Whose sway through ages back they trace. 


The sports begin; — the wrestler's skill 

They practice with a ready wiU ; 

And with the bow and arrow yie 

To gain the prize in archery. 

Bat poorly now they pull the string, 

Wide from the mark the arrows wing,^ 

Again the eager peasants vie, 

And each chagrined, once more would try ; 

But still in yain they draw the bow— 

Ko arrow could the target show. 

The Baron was ashamed not less 

At such a sad unskillfulness. 

He enters where the archers stand, 

And takes a bow the peasants hand, 

And though he was a marksman famed. 

The target his defeat proclaimed. 

With sha^e and rage the Baron shook, 

And shouted with an angry look ; — 

"This is a yile and awkward thing, 

Go ! Haste 1 my own sure cross-bow bring ; 

With it, the silver arrow too, 

I cannot fail with those I know." 

The minstrel cottager drew near, — 
Hi8 Btep was firm-luB eye was dear. 
And though his head was silvered o'er. 
And time his brow with wrinkles wore. 
His rich voice still was sweet and strong 
In plaintive strain and mirthful song. 
The minstrel was beloved by idl. 
In peasant's cot and Baron hall ; 
For oft he'd sung of former days. 

At Rudger's festive board of cheer, 
And many a peasant's heart could praise 

The wisdom of the minstrel seer. 

** Beware, my noble Lord," he said, 

<' Lest thou bring vengeance on thy head. 

The silver arrow — knoVst thou not?^ 

If for a trifling purpose shot, 

Will bring the weightier grief and wo, 

Than ere can come from mortal foe. 

Remember, it has magic force, 

Thy fathers owned its mystic source^ 

And bade thee oft to guard it well. 

And fear its mighty magic spell ; 


And wMToed thee ne*er its power debue^ 
Nor use, eieept to sare jour race; 
And should one dare from this depart^ 
lis point should pierce the archer's heart" 

Hie Baron stamped the ground with raga^ 
And answered stem the minstrel sage. 
" Know, meddler, mine is not the hand 
To cease at thy unasked command; 
Nor I the marksman that can miss, 
With such a well formed shaft aa thia." 

He took the arrow ; — nerer jet 
Was one so fair in bow string set 
y Twas finely formed and wrought with eara^ 
Of Tirgin metal pure and rare, 
And if no magic power it knew, 
It was a weapon sure and true. 
With rey*rence which he could but show, 
The Baron placed it in the bow ; 
The minstrel's words his boeom sting, 
He fSsars — ^but madlj pulls the string. 
It catches in his vestment wear — 
The arrow whizzes in the air. 
Swift in its flight it lodges now 
In a decajed and rotten bough, 
Which hangs (ar o'er the fissure's Terge^ 
Where loudlj roars the torrent's surge. 
The peasants hasten to the brink — 
Then in their terror backward shrink. 
The tree grew o'er the fiurthest edge, 
And the dead limb so drj through age 
Seemed held to the trunk in fear and dread 
Of the foaming torrent's rocky bed. 

^e Baron saw it, and his frame 

Shook with the thought of crime and shame; 

Remorse and anguish o'er him stole, 

And horror filled his inmost souL 

A eur$6 was on its loss, he knew, 

The forfeit of his life was due. 

Better to lose his castle tower. 

His wealth, his vassals, and his power, 

Ay I he would gladly give them all, 

The silver arrow to recall 

** Hy vassals brave and strong^— he cried, — 
"In many a deed of oourage tried. 

] SOBTLLA. tt 

A prince's wealth waits his oommaodsi 
Who puts that arrow in my hands." 

A wistful buzz was all he heard — 
He looked — but no retainer stirred. 
They durst not, for though great the price, 
The frightful peril met their eyes. 
The Baron marked them shrink in fear. 
Then cried in tones which all could hear: — 
"With wealth, with lands I freely part^ 
And give them with a grateful heart; 
Name but the boon your souls demand, 
And take it from Dorylla's hand.'' 

Then leaping from the crowd who try 

His mad, wild progress to deny, 

A youth springs forth — the minstrel's son— 

And swears the arrow shall be won. 

One bound— his light and agile form, 

Which seemed well fitted to perform 

A wild and daring deed like this, 

Is hanging o'er the dread abyss. 

The bough is gained — a moment there 

He pauses ere its strength he dare,— 

A moment — and with courage rare, 

Lays the cool plan as if aware 

His peril, yet too bold to quail. 

He treads the bough so weak and fraiL 

With eye firm fixed upon the prize. 

His step the cracking wood defies, 

He stops — his hands the arrow meet— '^ 

He throws it at the Baron's feet 

A shout — ^but hark 1 a fearful cry 
Of terror rises shrill and high. 
The limb gives way — they see him now, 
Grasping the fragile, broken bough. 
In awe they gaze ; with giant might 
Undimmed by fear, unnerved by fright. 
He springs, and from the bough leaps clear, 
And strives to gain the railing near. 

'Tis barely gained — and with a grasp 
Like one whose hands fond life would dasp. 
With sudden fall and stunning shock, 
His arms around the railing lock. 
He's safe — and climbing to the plain 
He mingles with the throng again ; 


Then takes the arrow from the groand, 
AdcL puts it in the Baron*s hand, 

While shouts of triumph loud resound. 
In deaf *ning echoes through the land. 

£*en Rudger smiles, and bids him name 

The promised boon he well might claim. 

The youth gazed on the maiden fair. 
Who trembling stood in terror there, 
And conscious now of him alone. 

Whose safety made her love complete, 
Blushing with hope before unknown. 

She kneels with him at Rudger*s feel 
The Baron white with anger grew. 
His face was of a deadly hue ; 
A* storm of passion swept his heart. 
Which well nigh tore his frame apart 
He gasps — ^when less his fury grew — 
** Bind him — ^he's mad — ^yoor sports renew.** 

Tis erening — and the castle hall, 

With torch and lamp from roof and wall, 

Shines with a gay and brilliant light. 

Upon a mirthful, festive sight. 

For gathered there the old and young. 

In shouts of revelry which rung 

The ceiling and the oaken walls among, 

Join in the smile, the jest, the glance. 

And in the rustic village dance. 

Rudger, the proud and strong, was there. 

The arrow grasped within his hand ; 
His brow a darker look did wear 

Of scorn, defiance, and command. 
Dorylla too, but pale and sad, 
No mirth could make her bosom glad ; 
The one she loved— the minstrel's sonr— 
The peril of his life had run, 
And now in dungeon chains he waits 
The doom her angry sire debates. 

At length his harp the minstrel took. 
And as its strings with music shook. 
The dancing ceased, and gathering near. 
Attentive now they strive to hear 
The song of lovers, sod or gay, 

51.] DORYLLA. a 

Or list to tales of ancient day. 

When stillness throng^ the castle reigoi. 

He sings in simple ballad strains :-— 

<* There lired a Baron onoe, revered, 

Kind Fortune on him smiled, 
His life a lovely lady cheered, 

And a fond and only child. 

** The good wife died, and yean puted by, 

The child a lady grew. 
And many a Up of praise did Tie 

In blessings kind and true. 

** A peasant youth she loved) ahs I 

With warmth and fervor true ; 
Ko wrath the Baron's could surpass, 

No prayers that wrath subdue; 

** But when the haughty Rudger heard 

That ^e was not his child. 
He gave her to— —*-•** 

" Cease, harper T cried the Baron loud^ 
Stepping in front the peasant crowd,-^ 
** It was of Budger that you spi&e, 
Beware lest you his rage provoke." 

The minstrel threw his harp aside. 

And calmly to his lord replied : — 

** It teas of Budger that I spoke, 

And not a wcnrd will I revoke ; 

Dorylla is no child of thine, 

/am her ^ther — she is mine. 

Hear, Baron I nor my words deride-* 

Recall the time thy lady died ; 

The one who nursed her was my wife, 

Kow both have ceased this troubled life. 

An ancient wrong her lady did, 

Aroused her anger, and though hid 

For many a year within her breast, 

Your very race she did detest, ( 

And vowed a deep revenge should c<Hne, 

And strike a blow at Rudger's home. 

Her vow was kept — ^her mistress dead, 

She placed another's child instead ; 

^OL, XVII. 8 

68 • DORTLLA. 

And who was there to know or tell 
The secret that she kept so well f 

** Tis false — I do not care to dread — 
What proof r the Baron coolly said. 

** My oath," the minstrel quick replied — 
** My wife's confessioQ when she died. 
At these you scorn, — but hear me through. 
E'en tMou shalt say the tale is tme. 
An arrow marks the Rudger race. 
Upon yoor arm its form yon trace ; 
And well yoo know 'twas said of old 
Yoor house this seal of birth should hold." 
The finely swelling arm they bare, — i 
There was no mark of arrow there. 

The minstrel speaks in accents mild,— 
** Now, Rudger, I demand my child." 

** Take her," — he answered with a scorn — 
" Take her, fa^ae man, and quick — ^begone 1 
No blood of mine could be so base, 
As mingle with a peasant race. 
But hold 1 is this brare youth your son. 
Who late the silyer arrow won t" 

** Not mine, as all the peasants know, 
But was adopted years ago." 

** Then bring the Priest, — he eager said,— 
And by the fiend, they now shall wed." 
Off from the youth the chains are thrown. 
The Priest is brought — and they are one. 

The minstrel stood in ulence there. 
And heard the injured Baron swear, 
That on the morrow he should die 
For such a foul, base treachery. 
And when at length proud Rudger ceased. 
And bade the peasants end their feast, 
The minstrel, without fear or dread, 
Turned calmly to his chief and said : — 

"List for a moment, I entreat. 
While I this tale of mine complete ; 
For noWf proud Baron, thou shalt hear 

851.] • DORTLLA. 59 

Of tbe lost one thou hold*8t so dear. 
When this fair maid was given thee, 
Thy child, thy son was brought to me. 
He whom you saw this very day, 
A deed of courage rare display, 
When all were deaf to your command. 
Who placed the arrow in your hand ; 
He whom this moment you have wed 
To peasant blood, though nobly bred,— 
He is your son — in him you trace 
The last of Rudger's haughty race. 
XKX>k, Baron I on this arm, and own 
This arrow makes him yours alone.'* 

The youth's strong arm he looked upcm, 
And knew he was his only son. 
His spirit stem, unused to yield. 
His heart by long indulgence steeled. 
Were rent and torn beneath the blow 
Of such a mighty, deadly wa 
There was no joy that he had gained, 
A long lost son by fraud detained ; 
But in his features one might trace 
A look of shame and deep disgrace. 
That his proud blood and ancient mighty 
Degraded by the marriage rite, 
Was joined with one whe was his serf, 
A vassal, and of menial birth. v 

With lifted hand, he totters near 
And whispers to the minstrel seer : — 
*' Lost is the pride of Budger's line. 
Traitor ! thy blood is joined to mine." 

His arm upraised to strike a blow. 

Against the one who caused his wo. 

Dropped to his side — he tottered — fell, — 

The arrow which he clasped so well,' 

True to its spell and ancient name, 

With magic power and fatal aim. 

Pierced deep his heavy, falling side, — 

He moved but once — then gasped, and died, w. w. a 

90 JUNIOR TEAR. [Nov. 

Ittntor Star. 

Here at length is Junior year, the late summer of college life. The 
modest budding of the Freshman bloom, the early, fitful heat of the 
Sophomore months, with the disappointing frosts of the one, and the chill- 
ing damps of the other season, as occasionally the prospects of the 
year were obscured, is past, and the proximity of fruit time causes things 
to wear a more sober and unvarying aspect, while at times the distant 
refraction of an approaching exit from these fiamiliar scenes traces an 
additional line upon the thoughtful brow ; and occasionally a strong 
Bwell from the heaving ocean of active Ufe rolls up the river so fast de- 
scending and widening to the confluence, and makes the heart beat for 
the strong and mighty impulses of the winds and the tides. The shal- 
lows and the quicksands of the Freshman and Sophomore navigation, 
where so many of our companions grounded and were left behind, are 
now escaped ; the difficult rapids of the Biennial are safely passed, 
and now the wider and more placid stream bears the bark right gaily 
onward, while the pleasant remembrance of toils successfully endured, 
and the lightness of heart when burdens are removed, and ^he expecta- 
tion of pleasure while yet we remain, and the ardent resolves for the sub- 
sequent years, each add in their freshness a joy to the time. All sorts 
and complexions of fancies rise before us as we review the past two 
years. There are pictures of term time and vacation spread out as bright 
and vivid as when the sunshine of friends or fortune traced them on the 
memory. A delicate line here shows our former scrupulosity in Fresh- 
man days, when we were " righteous over much." See with what horror 
we made our first flunk — with what sincere penitence we approached 
the tutor's confessional to acknowledge our first delinquency. There is 
a blot or two made by a few tears, with which at the twilight leisure 
hour we mourned for 

*' The little parlor and the evening hymn," 

before we had entirely forgot the pious practice. Here the pencil shows 
hurried work, as if it had moved with the rapidity of our passage home- 
ward, when the swift iron Phlegethon seemed a snail, and thought an- 
ticipated by many hours the embrace of a mother and a sister, and ex- 
ulted triumphantly and sometimes tremulously, in the prospect of greeting 
many friends in general, and one petite ami in particular. The smoking 
party, armed to the teeth with blackened pipes for an onslaught upon 
some timid Freshmen — tlie Lyceum as it was, with it«^ economy of ricl^' 


1851.] JUNIOR YEAR. 6t 

ety settees, its oft mended, barn-like doors, its well-defined and ever mem" 
orable odors — the grim and terrible Biennial, with all its paraphernalia 
of un-Spartanlike tables, the sentinel tutor, the sound of the scratching 
of pens — all these glide before us as the panorama of the past moves on. 

" I find DO place that does not breathe 
Some gracious memory/' 

These are the queer shapes that often rise phoenix-like out of the blue 

flames that flicker on the grate at night, when study is dismissed, and 

dreams steal over one sitting in the silent, glimmering darkness. Who 

does not love to call them up, to interrogate them, and listen to " twice 

told tales T But there are more than these : 

** When the dark shadows flit along the ceiling, 
And the dull firelight trembles in the grate, 
Fancy, fond yet with old, remembered feeling, 
Striveth the loved and loet to recreate.'' 

The forms of him who first, and who last left us, appear familiarly, as 
they sat by our side in the recitation, or joined in the social walk and 
talk, or animated the debates of the Society halls. The impress they 
made rests still upcm us, but they are no longer with us.' The last days 
of health, tie slowly waning life, the solenm annunciation of death, the 
sober groups that gather to converse, the crowded room of the cofl&ned, 
the long, sad procession — ^these also flit like shadows by us. 

Thus much for the retrospect Pleasant indeed it is ; who can deny ? 
Sadness and the remembrance of grief impart a sober tint to our picture, 
but it is no less sweet. Having gained as it were a point of survey, the 
rugged places behind us are smoothed and softened in the distance ; we 
have forgotten the quagmire, and remember only the crystal stream 
where we washed out the stains. 

Perhaps imagination has tinted the memories of the past too brightly. 
But the present has too much of sober, stem reahty to allow such a lib- 
erty. How lustily sang and roared a certain crowd in the woodland a 
few months ago, 

" For the sunlight dear of the Junior year 
Is beaming bright before us I" ^ \ 

It was then supposed for a verity, that the winter was past, that is to say, 
tiiat hard times were over, and that thenceforth every tired Maecenas of 
a Sophomore might cease to patronize Latin, Greek, etc., and would glide 
along toward the A. B. as smoothly and easily " as lightning on a 
gfeased railroad." Pardon the inelegant simile, reader, but it is Davy 
Crockett's own. What a hallucination those Sophomwes labored under I 



We certainly cannot see how the condition of a Junior is superior 1 
of a Sophomore. We, as well as they, are reluctantly aroused 
Alectryon as discordant as any that ever greeted the early dawn w 
** brassy roar." We are bored as severely as they, and are not, moi 
allowed to remonstrate. A Junior must endure tacitfis ; a Sophomoi 
scrape and groan as loud as he please. Then Juniors are tantalize* 
a refinement of cruelty. They are obliged to sit and gaze for i 
hours every week at certain shawls, often ugly ones, upon the ba 
the fair thsCt frequent the Philosophical lectures, but are indignantly < 
a sight or glimpse of " the human face divine." Was not all c 
pected " otium cum dig — " a mere mirage ? Concerning appoint 
modesty prompts us to say, that they are a humbug, writing the 
a bore, the glory of speaking, vanity of vanities. 

But, regarding the position of a Junior more seriously, there are < 
less many sober thoughts suggested to the mind that muses on tl 
quent change, and the rapid progression of life. Time, as it adv 
bears us ever onward, and the approach of future scenes, and the 
ding from those forever past, knows no cessation. Not many monti 
run the round of change, before those now midway in Colle^ 
will stand upon the outer verge, and the records of an important 
in their history will have been engraved forever. Like the ancient k 
who ofttimes spent the hours before the decisive conflict in medi 
within the silent cloisters, they pass in seclusion the time of prepa 
for the severe struggles of life. Already the signal notes are hean 
heralds admonish us to be carefully equipped. 

These more serious thoughts suggest themselves. We shall mc 

no farther, but commend them to him who reflects, 

** So many worlds, so much iA do, 
So little done, sach things to be." 

Ci)e Qarp of tt)e tPinlra. 

TwAS night, and tired men slumbered, slept and dreamed ; 

And Earth, aweary, bathed in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet the wide dome of slumbering Nature seemed 

Peopled with winds, trooped forth from iEolus' cave. 

Ifot zephyrs, such sis dimple limpid lakes. 
Or slyly whisper, hid 'mid forest leaves:— 


But fitful gusts, whose forceful ouset breaks 
Ships from their moorings, and the sea upheaves ! 

Wild winds which, though unseen, yet shouting loud 

In lawless turbulence on- whirling roll, 
Besieged my casement in a furious crowd — 

Till gentle thoughts, in fright, forsook my souL 

When Memory swept my heartstrings, not a strain 
But cruel winds supplanted with harsh discords. 
Hope's whispering voice the harsh blasts rudely stifled 
So, all my solitude's sweet charmers gone, — 
All gone^I sat, at mercy of the storm. 
And then, plenipotent to vex my soul 
Like minions of some power that owed me spite. 
These boisterous creatures joined in tuneless chorus. 
Va^t. whirling. rushiag.Jbiog hurricanes 
Formed for the lesser blasts, appropriate bass : — 
While little, whistling, piping, spiteful winds, 
Shrill shrieked a piercing treble, high and wild ; 
And for the other parts, whoops so unearthly 
Burst in, that I did think Discordia 
Was howling slumbering earth a serenade 1 
Well nigh distracted by the hideous din, 
I sought, like Saul, a charm 'gainst my tormentcnrs ; 
And, happy thought I when these a moment lulled 
Gave me short respite, I brought forth the harp 
That owns no master save the tameless winds. 
That wondrous instrufnent I The soul of Saul 
Not sooner felt the '* Shepherd Minstrel's" power, 
Than mine the influence of the tones that rose 
Ke8ponsi7e to the advancing winds' attack. 
Those winds, no more disturbers of my peace, 
Oame welcome now, as angels of delight; 
Their turmoil turned to tunefid tender lays. 
Or noble symphonies resounding joy 1 
Now as I listened, rapt ; — at every blast 
Tumultuous pleasure thrilled, throughout my being ; 
While every kuah, gave tenderest harmonies 
To sooth my soul, till in a loveful song > 

My heart poured praises to that witching harp. 

Harp I that wooest winds of Heaven 

By their gentle breathing flEumed, 
To thy melody 'tis given 

Thoughts to sing of spirit land ! 


Hark I I hear thee murmiir faintly, 

Faintly as the mourner^B prayer ; 
Tones all heayenly, pore and saintly, 

Saintly as a Soraph's are I 

And methinks thou sadly singest 

Things I woald^ bat cannot speak ; 
Grieffol memories thou bringest 

Of low yoicee, moomfol— meek. 


Still tremnloos and low I 

All silent, now 1 
ITioae voices faded so 

TheyVe silent now, 
Silent now I 


Hark I from depths of silcooe welling 

Joyous harmonies arise ! 
Tone o'er tone triumphant swdling 

Higher, higher toward the skies ! 


'Minding me of happif voices 

Jnbilant amid the past 1 
Now like these thy strain rejoicea-* 

Ah! too happy long to last I 

Fading eyen as I listen, 

Tone departeth after tone ; 
All earth's songs of joy thus hasten. 

Just approach us and are gone. 

Harkl murmuring sad and low. 

All silent now ! 
Glad Toices faded so, 
They're silent now. 
Silent now I 


Is the spirit-harp forsaken ? 
Itist ! dim echoes, strange and wild, 


Chords unearthly now awaken, 
Each a wandering Fancy's child. 

Such the strains a dream revealeth 

When the spirit, free to roam, 
From the closing portals stealeth, 

Of its humble earthly home. 


Strains to make a seraph listen, 
Ceased the while, his harp of gold ; 

Music as of stars that glisten, 
Morning stars that sang of old I 


This evanescent, too ? 

All's silent now 1 
Dreams, yanished like the dew, 

Are silent now. 

Silent now ! 

Kow comes a breeze to strike thy silent strings, 
Laden with heavy groan, and sob, and sigh, 

And as each note of sorrow thrills, it wrings 
A tear-drop from the sympathizing eye. 

And now, from far a gale comes sweeping oo 1 

Vibrations, rapid, free, a hymn resound. 
In praise of noble deeds and freedom won, 

Speeding the life-tide in a swifter round I 

Thus, wildly swept by wandering winds of night» 
Thy music murmurs, swells and bursts away I 

Plaints, hymns, and peeans, varying like the light, 
Dim or resplendent, of the Aurora's play. 

Sweet Harp 1 thy crystal tones seem not of earth ! 

Thou dost prelude the songs of heavenly choirs, 
By angels warbled since Creation's birth. 

To ring forever from their golden lyres ! a, b. 



^ l&omanct of tl)e £abarators. 

So-AND-So, a classmate of mine, gave a birth-night convivium. His 
lx)oms were up in High street, and when we had spent all our resources 
of enjoyment, which was at the smallest possible hour of the next morn- 
ing, we departed for our respective abodes. The other fellows roomed 
out of College, and I started for " Old South" alone, refusing all offers of 
attendance, and relying on my own abilities to "steer clear" of the cor- 
ners. It was rather dark, but I navigated safely through the posts op- 
posite the Gymnasium, and was congratulating myself that I was safe 
on College ground, when, as I came near the Laboratory, I became con- 
scious of a " dim religious" light, proceeding from within those low walk 
I was not at all alarmed ; I could have met with friendly cordiality, old 
Nick himselfl or even a tutor, so I drew near one of the side windows, 
and peered into the darkness of the room, which was illumined only by a 
dim little spirit lamp on the table. Suddenly a series of bubbles burst out 
from the cistern and ignited with pale flashes of light, by which I could 
just see " Robert," with his hand on two large bell-glasses, from which 
he was turning up some inflammable gasses. In a second more there 
was a report and a flash together, and I caught a glimpse of a fonn 
rising from the cistern, from which Robert fell back with a shriek; then 
all was dark and still again, only the little spirit lamp burned dimly ss 
before, a kind of blue, luminous bean in the thick gloom. 

I began to get excited, and taking off my hat, placed my face close 
to the glass and waited for further developments. Nor had I to wait 
long, for a dark figure, not nearly as tall as Robert, poked the fire and 
lighted a candle and then a cup of alcohol, so that I saw clearly what 
was going on. Twas a sight to have frightened the Pope, for there 
by the stove was the image of the very Devil himself, horns, hoofe, 
tail and all I And on the floor lay Robert in a swoon ! As I supposed 
then, and think now, Robert had been trying some alchemical experiment 
by himself and had let together some antagonistic gasses, from the sud- 
den union of which, Auld Homie, or some of his crew, had escaped. I 
still gazed through the window, indeed I seemed fastened there, though 
I felt willing to leave the mysteries unpro&ned, and saw the fiend begin 
flying about, taking the stoppers from various bottles, and after rapping 
them with his tail end, calling out " Evenite I Evenite !" Immediately 
out came fiizzing various and sundry other devils of sizes corresponding 
to their bottles, who began to release others of their fiendish friends 


►— — • ■■ ■ I M l - . 

who worked in their turn at the same kind offices, till there were troops 
and troops of the little imps, whizzing and hissing about in all directions. 
They seemed mightily pleased at their release, and cut up the maddest 
antics, leaping and flying* about, diving into the cistern or into the fire, 
knocking over bottles, and producing all manner of explosions and 
flames and smokes, so that for a time I could hardly see what they were 
doing; but when they lighted more of the combustibles which were 
lying about in a variety of forms, and became a little more qidet, I could 
we every thing. They had hauled poor Robert up into the Professor's 
high chair, where he sat stiffened with fright, the' whites of his eyes roll- 
ing around ghastlily, and his hair doing its best to stand on end. Some 
of the imps were crawling over him, playing a devilish game of hnle and 
seek in his pockets and sleeves, or were straddling his nose, and ticMing 
ears with the ends of their tails. He, poor fellow, was utterly power- 
, and stirred not a peg. The rest of them, great and small, were 
scuttling all over the room and in and out of the back rooms, doing — 
every thing. I wish I could remember half what they did, or rather I 
wish I could forget it, for I dream of them whenever I have been taking 
the least drop, even of ale. I'll mention a few of their pranks. 

Crowds of them were taking turns at a bottle of chloroform and get- 
ling gloriously tipsy*; two of them had found a glove, which some of 
"our friends on the right" had left, and they were on top of one of the 
seats, trying it on as they would a double pair of trowsers ; two others 
had tied their tails together with a piece of red ribbon, which some fair 
one had dropped, and were cutting about gaily ; some were trying to 
swim in the bath of mercury ; others rubbing themselves with sticks of 
phosphorus ; a bunch of them were tugging together at a large horse- 
shoe magnet, with which they had caught the steel-tipped tails of a dozen 
otters and were pulling them around in wild glee ; a continual supply 
was taking the place of Robert's tormentors, as they grew tired ; some 
were polishing their horns and the extremities of their tails with sulphuric 
add ; others warming themselves in the stove ; these and several thou- 
sand other things they did, more than I can or wish to think of. A 
terrible clatter they kept up, galloping over the tables and benches, 
knocking over glasses, mixing effervescences, and letting off confined 
gases, and as I looked, my brain reeled with confused astonishment. Yet 
in the midst of my bewilderment, I had emotions of pity for poor Robert, 
who continued in itatu quo, and a wretchedly funny statue he was. I 
could not bear to see a fellow mortal in the clutches of such an infernal 
cww, 80 1 picked up a brick, which I found lying close to my hat^ and 


•ianding back a little, hurled it through the window into the midst of 
them, and then fell down completely overcome with — exhaustion. 

One — ^two— three — ^four — five, on the College clock, aroused me to 
consciousness. Aurora had not yet become rosy-fingered, but by the 
gray light, I picked up myself and my hat, and tottered over to my room 
to get ready for my morning lesson. 

I should have considered my vision as only a dream that had visited 
me, as I rested myself on the grass on my lyay home, and the fiiatiy 
spirits akin to the whiskey spirits of the night before, but a hole in 
the window and a brick found among the bottles on the table next dnj) 
seemed to give some thing of substance to the foundation of my Bo- 


(Saaag on 0leepi 


The solemn march of night and day is a great fact, throughout the 
system of worlds in which we live. The shining sun and whirling plan- 
ets have led on these phenomena from the morning of creation, and must 
continue to command their march until the wreck of all things. Those 
twinkling suns, which shine upon us from afar, and reveal to us other sys- 
tems revolving there, may, with their whirling spheres, extend the phe- 
nomena of day and night beyond our utmost thought 

What meaneth this ? Who dwell in these worlds ? What have they 
to do with night ? Or if made to live in darkness, what have they to do 
with day ? What twofold nature have th^y, to need both ? 

There may be beings to whom all these are deep problems. And to 
us they are but in part explained. We may conjecture from, analogy, and 
it may seem more than guessing, but certainty for us must be confined 
to the little world in which we live. Here we may lay aside conjecture, 
and look around us for the answer. 

Amid the Hght of day, we see the hurry and hear the bustle of activ© 
life. But in the shade of night, all is motionless and still. The flood of 
darkness, as it rolls on its daily circuit, drowns all living things, and 
shrouds them in silence and gloom. The manifestations of life are no 
moTQ seen, until the brightness of a new bom day wakens the slumber 

1851.] SSSAT Oir SLEBP. 60 

ing world. While day is succeeded by night and night succeeded by 
day, action is succeeded by repose and repose succeeded by action, again 
and again until, the eternal lethargy of death swallows up both. 

This intermediate rest, this temporary repose, which we call SUep^ is 
the subject of the present remarks. The theme may appear unattractive. 
Its phenomena may seem to be a suitable basis for nothing except a Phys- 
iological or a Psychological disccussion. But they have relations, inte- 
resting not merely to the Philosopher, but equally to all who love to con- 
template the system of things amid which we are living, and which gives 
signs of a nobler system that Ues still in the future. We need not then, 
and we will not be confined in our observations, by the one science or 
the other. Not desiring to found any system, or frame any theory, we 
will seek only the entertainment and profit that may be derived from 
the examination of a curious and noble law of the world in which we 

I say law^ for Sleep is not merely a habit, but truly a- law of nature. 
It is one of those general principles whose operation is not only beyond 
the control of all hving creatures, but rules over them. It is in vain to 
resist its power. We may as well attempt to fly from the cravings of 
hunger as endeavor to escape its demands. We may rebel against its 
authority, and do our utmost to keep the machinery of activity and con- 
sciousness in motion, but we shall not succeed. Though we should for 
a short time maintain our liberty with struggles, our resources will 
looa be expended, and then our captivity will be only the more oom- 

It is indeed a natural law, but it is peculiar. Though we become so 
&nuliar with it, yet we can never reflect upon it without surprise. It is 
without analogy among all. the other laws of creation. There is none 
like it The heavenly bodies are driven on by forces which never ceoH 
or abate. ' The elements have each their afiSnities faed and eternal. They 
seize each other, and never voluntarily relinquish their embrace. They 
reject ea«h other, and never of themselves become reconciled. All other 
laws are steady and permanent. They either forever resist all cessation 
of action, or forever resist all renewal of motion. But Sleep is an inter- 
mittent law. Now with resistiess hand it holds motionless the wheels of 
lib. Now it releases its grasp, and they fly on with renewed vigor and 
speed. So peculiar is Sleep. 

And not only is it peculiar, but its relation to ourselves is most inti- 
fliafe. Other natural laws may be displayed about us in splendor or in 
tKmendous energy, while we without concern are intent upon other 

to siiAT OK nam. [Nor. 

matters. Or w« may tuin our attention direetly to themi and em- 
ploy our noblest powers in contemplating the beauty or the grandeur of 
their operations. But Sleep comes upon us and locks our senses. We 
cannot contemplate, we cannot eyen feel its power. While other laws 
are acting, even on our physical frame, the mind is fi-ee to think, to rea- 
son, to hope, to fear. But Sleep lays his hand on the thinking self, and 
consciousness onks to nothingness. The mind before exalted as a spec- 
tator of the scene is now the very object on which the energies of the 
law are expended. So personal, as well as peculiar, is Sleep. 

But though a thing so personal to tM, yet it is not limited to man. 
Every thing which has life must sleep. Creative OoEmipotence has Idt 
no exception. Not man only, but every animal, and not the whole am- 
nud world merely, but also the vegetable, — ^all these yield to its sway. 
Two of the three kingdoms of nature are united to form its empire. 
The lord of creation, Man, bows beneath its power. The wild monaicb 
of the fields, the lion, smks powerless under its heavy hand. The great 
Leviathan id the ocean sleeps among the waves. From the pine on the 
mountam and the oak in the forest, to the lily that swims upcm the wt- 
fiice of the water, there is a constant alternation fix>m action to repose, 
and from repose to action. 

Such are some of the general characteristiee of Sleep. Now we may 
draw nearer and get a mote distinct view, — take a survey of a more defi- 
nite class of phenomena. 

We inquire then, what are the signs hy which we may distinyuifk 
Sleep f Here a difSculty presents itself This state is not always deiily 
defined. Between perfect wakefulness and perfect sleep there may be 
numberless intermediate states. They merge into each other, and bl^ 
like the hues of the rainbow, or even like the imperceptible fiading of twi- 
light Here is the broad land of dreams — ^a hazy wilderness diffieoH 
to explore. The boundaries of this disputed region we will not attempt 
to settle. Its uncertain phenomena we leave for others to examine. But 
perfect sleep is easily distinguished. Our inquiry, then, is, ^hat aie 
the distinguishing phenomena of perfect Sleep) I answer — eessaHiuf^ 
qf conseiausnesSj cessation of external action, temporary, and periodkaL 

The first and most obvious of these is eeseatiofn of consciaueness. Is 
perfect sleep there is no consciousness <^ any afiection, either of tbi 
mind or of the body. Pain and pleasure are not felt by the body : joy 
and sorrow are annihilated in the mind : hope and fear cannot enter. 
Thus it is with man. And of other animals, so far as we can know, tlie 
flame is true. They cannot indeed tell us of the affections of their spirit 

1851.] BS6AT OV 6UBIP. *!l 

ud part, but we know that their senaes are shut to every thing external, 
and we have no reason to believe that there are any spiritual motiona 
within. In plants this change is more difficult to discern, as the con* 
scions principle itself is more obscure. But it takes place even in them, 
and may alwajrs be detected by refined eKperiments and strict scrutiny. 

In death also there is a cessation of consciousness. How, then, do we 
distinguish sleep from it? Though all external action has ceased, yet 
the action of the muscles on which life depends, ceases not And the 
vital fluids still continue to move. Hour after hour passes by, while the 
Qnconsdous subject is wrapt in sleep, and still the powers of respiration 
are freely acdng, still the current of life is shot through every part ci the 

But Sleep is temporary. In health it is always of short continuance. 
In a few hours at longest consciousness returns, external action is renew- 
ed, and the whole living machinery is again in motion. 

Sleep is, also, periodical. It returns after regular intervals. Once, at 
least, in each revolution of the sun, with a course as invariable as that of 
the revolving orb himseli^ it comes back to reassert its dominion. 

Such are the phenomena of Sleep, We now inquire, what is Sleep t 
What is its essence f What is that which constitutes it what it is — ^that 
without which it would not be sleep ? I answer, it is a cessation ofvoli- 
Hon, This we may derive from its phenomena already exhibited. We 
have seen that sleep is distinguished from wakefulness by a cessation of 
consciousness and external action. But consciousness is an act of the 
will, and external action is but a manifestation of volition. While that 
intemal vital action, which continues unabated in sleep, is entirely /tm 
from the control of the wilL The essence of Sleep, therefore, can be 
nothing else, but a cessation of volition. This principle, attended by the 
l^enomena described, and n^odified by various accidents, constitutes all 
that we call Sleep, whether perfect or partial. 

Being thus acquainted with the nature or essence of Sleep, as well as 
&miliar with its phenomena, we next inquire its cause. But here our 
search is less amply rewarded. Curiosity, though unsatisfied, must be 
content to cnU it an original law. Its cause is covered with the thick 
darkness which veils the secret workings of Onmipotence. When the 
wonderful power of Gravitation shall be explained, then, and not till then^ 
niay we expect that the secret cause of Sleep will be revealed. 
It remains to consider its Destiny : to view its design, operation, and 

^d: its mission tor the body, and not less its mission for the soul : its 

Uoral, as well as its Physical, Destiny. 

72 K86AT OK BLKXP. [NoV. 

Its mission in both relations is one of kindness and mercy. To the 
body it brings relief, enjoyment, and refreshment It affords an escape 
from many a pain, and assists us to endure the ills from which we cannot 
flee. It is even a positive gratification. Amid all the joys of wakeful 
existence, its soothing pleasure is known and prized by alL No one 
would wish to be free from its mysterious chain until we shall have ex- 
changed cUl earthly pleasures for the higher joys of pure unsleeping 
spirits. It also brings refreshment How appropriate its name — '* tired 
natiue's sweet restorer." Health and vigor it renews. It checks the 
hurrying pulse and cools the fevered brain. It recdves the toil-wom 
mortal of to-day and launches him into to-morrow, restored to begin 
anew the struggles and the conquests of life. This is its Physical 

Its Moral Destiny is sunmied in these three words, — ^Faith, Humilily, 

Where Reason fruls, Faith begins. Sleep brings us to an arm of that 
great sea of mystery on which man is floating. It bears us out into 
deeps which Reason cannot fathom. It leaves us amid an unbounded ex- 
panse, where Reason is a bewildered stranger. Faith then must be our 
guide. Faith is then our all. Without her, we are lost, in the vast un- 
known. Here we learn to trust where we cannot know. 

Humility is a plant which thrives most in the shade. Sleep, like a 
sable cloud before us and behind, covering from our view the brightness 
of immortal life, makes us feel that we are treadmg the shadowy path of 
mortals. So the darkness of our lot is made to wither pride, while hu-, 
mility ex^nds the more. 

Hope^ sweetened by Humility, hangs on Faith. Sleep may be Death's 
brother, but he is also the pledge of his destruction. He may be the 
herald of his approach, but he is also the prophet of his defeat As sleep 
retires before the rising dawn, so Faith beholds Death vanish before the 
morning of an eternal day. Faith believes, Humility relies, Hope appro- 
priates, and rejoices. Thus Sleep's destiny is fulfilled,- j. f. b. 

1851.] PROF, silliman's tour. 73 

Prof. Silliman's late tour in Europe was one fbll of incidents, which 
it would interest every son of Yale at least, to hear in detail ; and not a 
few would be delighted to have his journals published. The passages 
we have already heard in the lecture room, are like partial glimpses of a 
hidden painting which only increase the desire to see the whole. Prof, 
SiDiman carried with him his well-known accuracy of observation, his en- 
ergy and zeal, and he has not returned empty-handed, like too many 
wbo travel with more time at command. His object was not merely to 
gratify curiosity, but to gather from the various places and objects which 
he visited, many valuable gems of knowledge. And these will go to eh- 
ridi his scientific lectures, which have given so much delight as well as 
instraction to many College generations. His testimony in ftiture on 
many points of fact, will be that of personal experience, instead of hear* 

The outline of his journey has already been given. The pleasure of 
the trip was greatly enhanced by the company of his son, Professor 
SiDiman, Jr., and lady, and several other friends, swelling the number to 

On their arrival in England, one of the first to welcome them was Dr, 
ManteH, between whom and Prof. Silliman there had been for many 
years a warm friendship, commenced by correspondence which was now 
for the first time strengthened by a personal interview. They spent only 
a fortnight in England at this time, devoting it principally to North 
Wales, where they richly enjoyed the romantic scenery around Caernar- 
von Castle, and those stupendous works of British art, the Menai and 
Tubtdar bridges. In London they attended a meeting of the Geological 
Society, where were gathered many of the principal scientific characters 
of England, by whom they were very cordially received. While in the 
metropolis, they were admitted as a special favor to the Crystal Palace, 
Wore it was opened to the public. 

Without delaying in London, they passed over to the Continent, and 

another fortnight was passed while they were enjoying the society of the 

philosophers of France, and surveying the lions of Paris and its environs, 

Jts palaces and its monuments. At that place they procured a courier 

to accompany them through the rest of the route, who had been a confix 

<iential yalet to the unfortunate Marshall Ney, and was one of Napoleon's 

tuners at Moscow. After the disastrous retreat, he had been intrusted 
VOL. xvn. 10 


with private despatches to the Empress Maria Louisa, which he put into 
her own hands at the Tuileries. Proceeding through Marshes, they 
took the Reveira road to Genoa — the city of palaces. Amongst otkr 
objects of interest, they here saw the tomb of Ck>lumbus. 

Italy, rich in remarkable geological phenomena, as well as in ruins, ab- 
sorbed much of their time and attention. At Rome the remains of an 
empire lay around them, temples, palaces, baths, and aqueducts — ^relicB 
of pagan magnificence. But even there they found natural curiodtiea d 
almost as much interest. Near the city there is a wonderful lake of sulphu- 
reous waters, the only lake of that kind known in the world. They ven- 
tured near it, though not without difficulty and danger, and found it 
boiling away like a mighty cauldron, as it has done ever since the time 
of the ancient Romans, by whom it was first described. They traveled 
by land from Rome to Naples, admiring the beauty and fertility of the 
country, and, meeting with similar adventures on a part of the same road, 
they understood more forcibly than ever before, that immortal descriptioQ 
of a journey to Brundusium, by one of the finest poets of ancient Rome. 
Here they noticed a singular intermingling of desolation and beauty. In 
the midst of beautiful rolling land, richly cultivated, there constantly ap- 
peared decaying monuments of human greatness. Magnificent aque- 
ducts now fallen in ruins, united with the tombstones on the road-side, 
tell of a people who departed centuries before. 

Immediately on arriving at Naples, they rode over to Pompeii ; f(x 
when so near, their earnest desire to see that place would brook no de- 
]»Y, and they found it a spot of greater interest than almost any wbidi 
they visited during their journey. A city buried by volcanic action, 
and embalmed so as to preserve to modem time a type of Roman 
magnificence, must naturally have awakened emotions of peculiar in- 
tensity, in one in whom are blended so much scientific knowledge and 
classic lore as in Prof Silliman. Just outside the old city walk stands 
the villa of Diomede, roofless, but with its columns, and arches, and 
walls just as they stood eighteen hundred years ago. The party were 
shown where the members of that ancient family — ^the lady of the 
house, her daughter and servants, met their fate, the tufsi which concre- 
ted around them, having formed a perfect cast of their bodies — ^and even 
some of the bones being preserved entire. They spent many hours in 
examining various buildings, public and private, which have been exca- 
yated ; and yet the excavations bear but a small proportion to the whole 


Vesuvius next took up their attention, and they ascended to take a 

1851.] PROF, silliman's tour. 75 

mv into the fuming abyss which has poured out such torrents of liquid 
fire in years that are passed. The ladies were borne up in chairs, and 
the gentlemen were assisted by Neapolitans who were more accustomed 
to the business than they. The ascent was somewhat arduous over the 
rough lava, and through deep beds of cinders and pumice stone, but 
they were well rewarded by the sight which at last they obtained. The 
crater is about one thousand feet in depth, and the very centre — the 
opening into the internal fires into which curiosity would have prompted 
them to look, was covered by impenetrable clouds of vapor and sulphu- 
reous fumes. 

At Naples they made the acquaintance of Prof Melloni, who is distin- 
guished the w(M*ld over, for his valuable contributions to science. Leaving 
the remainder of the party at this place. Professors Silliman Sr. and Jr. 
with Mr. Brush, made a trip to Sicily. On their way they were enabled 
to see the volcano Stromboli on one of the Lipari islands, which has been 
in action for more than two thousand years. Arriving at Messina, they 
proceeded to the base of Mt Etna, seventy miles distant ; not however 
without being obliged to obtain special permission from the government 
This £Ekvor is denied to all but Americans who are supposed to be non- 
mterventionists, and consequently safe travelers in a political point of view. 

The principal object of attention connected with Mt Etna, is a deep 
gorge on one side, which has not its parallel in the world — The Val 
del Bove. On all sides but one it is surrounded by almost perpendicular 
walls of nature's architecture between two and three thousand feet in 
hdght ; the remaining side opens toward the sea. In this stupendous 
amj^theater they spent much time, deeply interested as geologists in the 
structure of the mountain which was laid open around them, and at the 
same time as intelligent men, filled with that awe which is induced only 
by a contemplation of the more magnificent of God's works. 

Prof. Silliman, Jr. and Mr. Brush attempted to ascend the cone of Etna, 
but being too early in the season they went only to within thirteen hun- 
dred feet of the summit. They set out about nine o'clock one evening, and 
after toiling all night over rough lava and deep beds of snow, braving the 
cold blasts of a furious wind, they found it unadvisable on reaching the 
Casa Inglese, ten thousand six hundred feet above the Mediterranean, to 
proceed farther ; they took shelter under the gable of that building — 
the rest being all embedded in snow — ^tUl sunrise, which occurred with 
great magnificence soon after four. Their thermometer stood at 18° F., 
while a few hours before at Catania, they had experienced heat as high 
^ 04°. The view presented from that elevated position was, as might 


—- - - 

have been expected, beyond description, either by pen or peneQ. On 
their descent they obtained another view of the Val del Boire from the 
summit of its walls, which well repaid their toil. 

A number of other objects attracted their attention in Sicily, whidli 
we have no room to detail Hastening back to Naples, after vi»tiiig 
what remains of the ancient temple of Jupiter Serapis at Pozzuoli, a stnio- 
ture remarkable not more for its antiquity, than for the curious and in- 
structive geological phenomenon of which it bears recoid— they travel- 
ed northward again to Pisa, passing Leghorn on the way. At Pisa they 
were so fortunate as to witness the ceremonies of a great Catholic celebra- 
tion. At night the festivities were continued by an illumination more Imll- 
iant than they had ever seen before. Amongst all the other public edifices, 
the lofty leaning tower was conspicuous in*a robe of fire, while the Amo, 
which runs through the city, was spanned by brilliant arches and tem- 
ples reared for the occasion. 

Lucca, Florence, Bologna, Padua, Venice, and Milan were successively 
visited, and thence our travelers entered Switzerland through the Simplon 
pass — one of the monuments of Napoleon's energy. Here the Vale of 
Ohamouny, Mt. Blanc, the Alps and their glaciers, afforded them new 
pleasures. At Neufchatel they were met by a Swiss pastor of the same 
name, who is a connection of tiie Silliman family, and through whom 
the genealogy has been traced back many generations, and Lucca in Italy 
is now the ultimatum of the investigation, instead of *' Holland WV 
at Fairfield, where it rested for many years. 

At Geneva Prof. Silliman had an interview with Dr. Merle D'Au- 
bigne and a number of distinguished philosophers. At this place, he 
found that men of science maintain a high stand, both in point of Yfeslih 
and in rank, living in palaces in the city, and at the same time holding 
large estates in the country. 

While visiting at Frankfort, the two Professors rode over to Giessen, 
where resides that most indefatigable of living chemists, Liebig. They 
entered his room in the midst of a lecture on Quinine, and on sending 
in their cards, were received with a smile of recognition while a pupil 
gave them chairs. At the close of the lecture, they were very cordially 
received and were shown all over that laboratory, whence have emanated 
many important discoveries which will give their author an enviable im- 
mortidity. Their time was limited however, and they were obliged to cat 
short an interview which it would have been very pleasant to have con- 

The pleasure of their visit to Berlin — the next jplace of importance in 



th^'rtouT — ^was much augmented by the fact that the Royal Geographical 
Society was in session. With Carl Ritter for their president, there were 
assembled Ehrenberg, Rammelsberg,' the two Roses, Dove, Magnus, and 
MitscherHch, with many other eminent men of Prussia — a noble band. 
The President presented Prof. Silliman's name, and he was elected a 
member of that Society. The following day a note addressed by Profl 
Silliman to Humboldt, was promptly followed by an invitation from him, 
and he met them with a warm welcome and a pleasant rebuke for hesi- 
tatmg to call. 

The interview was deeply interesting, and Prof. Silliman was much 
pleased with the. spirited conversation of the venerable philosopher, who 
though over eighty, still retains his wonderful powers of mind, and shows 
an intimate knowledge of every part of the world. 

Returning to London through Paris, they visited many objects of inter- 
est in England which had been omitted before. The Crystal palace occupied 
much of their time, and they shared in the delight of the thousands who 
were privileged to see that rare exhibition of all the most beautiful pro- 
ductions of art. After visiting the beauties of the Isle of Wight with 
Dr. Mantell for their guide, they reembarked for their native land on Sep- 
tember third. . J. H. D. 

iHemorabUia ^alcnsia. 


DuRiKG the past vacation, the old Lyceum underwent an internal rejuvenation. 
On the first floor are now three rooms instead of four. The door in the rear has 
been shut up, and across the whole width of the building, extends a room for the use of 
the Senior Class. Leading to this room from the front door, is a hall (without any 
iteps in the middle,) on each side of which is a Sophomore recitation room, — so that 
BOW there is no way to pass from the front to the rear of the building as before. 
Those who have broken their shins and nearly broken their necks in measuring their 
leogth in the old Lyceum entry of a dark night, will know how to appreciate this 
duuige. Id the second story, the old Senior recitation room has been somewhat al- 
tered, and is now used by the Sophomores, and the two front rooms have been en- 
larged. These latter are Junior recitation rooms as before. In the third story, the old 
" Bhetoricftl Chamber" has suffered division, the South room being used as a recita- 
tion room by the Professor of Latin, and the North by the Professor of Rhetoric^ 
with whose private room it communicates. This has also been enlarged and other- 
wise improved, and the whole building with the exception of one or two rooms, has 
^en newly lathed and plastered, newly floored, newly painted, and thoroughly 


deansed. 1%e case for the clock weights in the entry, has been shortened by one 
story, to make room for a stair case on that side, and a door- way has been cat in the 
eipposite side under the other stair case. The rooms are moreover lighted with 
gas, and warmed by a furnace in the cellar. 

The College world has great cause for rejoicing at these improyements, both oa 
(he score of health and also of comfort Instead of going from morning prayers into 
a room, which strikingly reminds one of a combination of bed-room, kitchen, and 
odier apartments not proper to be mentioned here, we now proceed to rooms pos' 
eessing a far more Aristotelian atmosphere. Instead of the smoky oil lamp (called 
so/ar we suppose, on the lueiu a non lucendo principle) we have gas to assist us in 
tracing our way through the intricate mazes of Analytics — the muddy geography 
of Tacitus — and the accumulated rubbish of the Middle Ages. In short, the ^iHiole 
interior appearance of die building is so changed, that an alunmus would not 
know it 

But while we chronicle these changes with pleasure, we are saddened at the ne- 
cessity of such partial changes. When will the sons of Yale show their filial affec- 
tion, by providing for their Alma Mater a habitation, the &me of whose architec- . 
toral appearance shall be coextensive with her own reputation. 

The spirit of improvement has also manifested itself in the Chapel — in the intro- 
duction of gas. Here again we notice incompleteness. The galleries are not 
Hluminated ; Whether this neglect has arisen from the want of funds, we cannot 
say, but probably this part of the house was considered already sufficiently datding 
to the €\yes of the students. 

Appropos of the fair sex : we are reminded that certain ladies of this dty have 
in their kindness, supplied each seat at Chapel with a Hymn Book of convenient 
size and appearance, stamped on the cover — Yale College ChapeL All thanks for 
this kindness we say ; while we doubt not that the students generally, will shov 
by a careful preservation of the books, their appreciation of a gift which comes 
from such a source. That the favor is not unappreciated, we might infer from ibe 
fact that many of the students desire to possess themselves of more than was orig- 
inally given them, for they may be seen lingering about after evening prayers for 
the purpose of supplying each of their seats with two or more of the predoos 
gifts — a circumstance, no doubt, highly gratifying to the donors. But this laudable 
propensity is not confined to the students, for we noticed the other evening at pny* 
ers, that the occupants of the high seat at the right of the pulpit, were in a qnan- 
dary as to the whereabouts of their hymn book. Their scrutinizing gaze was turned 
to the Sophomore aisle, to see if any blushing countenance betrayed the wearer's 
overfondness for the presents of the ladies. But they looked in the wrong place 
that time. The offender was not so far ofL A classmate at our elbow, informed as 
that a no less personage than our worthy President, had at morning prayers abstract* 
ed the hymn book from the seat of the two dignitaries, the Senior Tutor and the 
Tutor in Natural Philosophy. 

From these circumstances it will be seen how desirable an article a hymn book 
is, and how proper it would be for the Chapel to he/tUly furnished with them. 
For there are some who think students as a body, are not capable of using aright 
any thing which might be styled a luxury — that any effort made to enhance their 
comfort or physical enjoyment is never appreciated — ^that they ars a set of boors fit 


only to dig Greek roots and break windows — and that any fayor like this bestowed 
npoQ them, is casting pearls before swine. True, they may sometimes have given 
to a casual observer, occasion for such belief. Instances have occurred and may 
again oocm*, where property has been destroyed by the students — we ourselves have 
seen bench after bench hurled from the recitation window. But does this prove that 
students necessarily destroy all property which comes in their way ? Let the seats 
of the Freshmen recitation rooms, the seats of the old Senior recitation room, and 
tile seats of the Lyceum, unmarked by a pencil, unbacked by a jack knife, testify. 
The destruction of a few rickety old benches, is merely an exercise of the right of 
soffirage, for which privilege only a quarter of a dollar poll tax is levied. We 
need not say that we are not endorsing this mode of suf&age. The historian need 
not inform his readers that he does endorse all the wars aqd revolutions which he 
records, although acknowledging their good effects. But we are transgressing our 
limits. We shall be glad, and we doubt not the originators of the present improve- 
ments will be satisfied, if the results of this experiment shall be to convince all con* 
cemed, that students can appreciate such favors. 



Dr. Eck of the University of Ingolstadt, once challenged Martin Luther to a pub- 
lic disputation. The Society of the Brothers in Unity last term, challenged the 
Linonian Society to a similar contest. In the Leipsic controversy, the victory was 
claimed by each party. In the contemplated controversy, should it ever take place, 
the result would probably be the same. Linonia accepted the challenge^ and in 
accepting it, expressed a wish that Calliope might participate in the dispute. Im- 
mediately after the excitement of electioneering was over, the three Societies by 
their committees, endeavored to determine on some plan of arrangement. Numer- 
ous were the difficulties that ar6se at this stage of the proceedings, among which 
were thd following — ^From what classes- shall the disputants be chosen t How 
many disputants shall there be ? Shall there be one question for the whole dis- 
pute, or shall each class have a separate one ? How much time shall be allowed 
each speaker ? Shall the dispute occupy one, two or three afternoons or evenings f 

A part of these difficulties have been overcome ; at least it is agreed upon that 
all classes, except the Freshmen class, which declined any participation in the pro- 
ceedings, are to take part in the dispute. The elections for disputants have been 
held in the different Societies, resulting as follows. 


Charles 0. Salter, William W. Crapo, Wm. Preston Johnston, 

Homer B. Sprague, Edward Houghton, Vincent Marmaduke. 

Charles L. Thomas, Edward C. Billings, Randal L. Gibson, 

Andrew J. Willard, Alfred Grout,* Thomas M. Jack. 


* William P. Aiken was originally elected, but having declined, Mr. Grout wa» 
chosen in his place. 



James K Hill, Edward G. Da Bois. William a Maples, 

John Tait, Samnel C. Gale, James E. Rains. 

Here the matter remains in ttatu quo, No time has been assigned for the grand 
display to come off, nor any questions chosen for the occasion, and it is getting tc7 
be the general opinion of College that there never will. he. 

Whenever anything further transpires in relation to this affair, we shall itand 
ready to record it. 


On Wednesday evening, October 29, a Poem was delivered in the Brothers Soci- 
ety by Joseph M. Smith of the Sophomore Class — Subject — "The Birth and Mis- 
sion of Music" 

On the same evening also, a Poem on " Virtue the True Principle of Study," was 
delivered in Calliope by James E. Rains, of the same class. 

In Linonia on Wednesday evening, November 12th, Andrew J. Willard of the 
Junior Class, delivered an Oration on '* Energetic Philanthropy." The three So- ' 
cieties were present on each occasion as usual 

OEbitor's Soblc. 

On account of the unexpected length of some of the preceding articles, we 
reluctantly compelled to omit two or three pieces which were intended for this dobi- 
ber, and which had even gone into the printer's hands ; while our £!ditor*s Table, filled 
as it would have been in part, with various favors from contributors, includiDg a 
letter from " Our Out-of-Town Subscriber" — in Montrose, Pa., must taie a very 
different form. However we console ourselves with the idea that oar readers ** doot 
know what good or bad things are left out," and also with the promise of a firiend 
in the Senior Class — ^always Swift in well doing — that when the Editors next meet, 
their Table shall be enriched with a basket of Connecticut apples 1 If such an un- 
usual event occurs, we are sure that there will be nuts to crack upon the important 

The essays intended for the Yale Literary Prize, are now in the hands of the 
resident graduate committee, and unless there is an unexpected delay, the result 
of the examination will appear in our next. 

Our subscribers are reminded that the terms of publication require the pay- 
ment of "two dollars" at the publisher's store, upon the delivery of the next niymber, 
which, by the way, will appear near the close of the tenn. 

The articles on ** Fashionable Follies," and on " Taking Out Half Sundays," have 
been received through the Post Office. 




Vol. XVII. DECEMBER, 1851. No. III. 

Is ooming, fellow Students ! What with our studies in Greek, Latin, 
Uftthematios, History and Science, and all the other multiplied occupa- 
tions of our CoU^ life, the days of another year have rolled rapidly 
iway, and are nearly all numbered among those that were. There re- 
Biain to US, of term time, but a few transition hours, linking the Future 
fith the Past We are looking forward to the quiet and enjoyment of 
i needed and desired vacation. And we now feel far more like revelling 
m inticipationB of the future or in reminiscences of the past, than en* 
giging in any deep cc^tations or penning studied essays. Political 
monk, philosophy, and all sorts of learning are good in their place-— 
* there is a time to work" — ^but there is a time, also, to lavLgh and piaffe 
ind that time, we joy to say it^ is at hand. 

A year ago, during the last days of Eighteen Hundred and Fifty, there 
was recorded upon a leaf of our memory's tablets, then new and fresh, 
a aeries of delightful scenes. We opened to that leaf to night, and it 
was a happy hour we spent in our review of them. And we would like, 
dear reader, to sit down by your side, and go over with you that record 
at the meny pranks of Santa Glaus' 

"Jolly old Bonl," 

and of the merriness and happinest of Christmas and New Year's dap ; 
to tell you of the way we found of being happy during the week of 

Fiightened from spending vacation in the city of our student sojourn^ 
by the dismal picture of the loneliness of life there at such a season,, 
drswn in the No. of the Yale lit issued just before the dote of the fidl 

▼ou xvn. 11 

82 RouDAT wxss. [Dee. 

tenn of '50, we posted down on Christmas day, at the in?itation of our 

danmate D , into the midst of those piles of brick and stone oorer- 

ing the south end of Manhattan Island and yclept New York. There w» 

found friendly, brotherly, sisterly, fatherly, motherly hearts I Yes! there 

in the midst of the busy, bustling city, where squalid misery and splendid 

misery so strangely mingle together, and where the crowds pouring 

through the streets seem to a stranger who looks at the outside of things, 

to preclude the hope of finding quiet and sociably happy domestic circles. 

But, stranger, they are there ! We found it so, to our delight, being 

made to feel at once at home, though home was distant nearly half a 

thousand miles. A volume would hardly describe at length the pleasures 

of that week of holidays. But the mode of enjoying Christmas evening, 

and the last night of the Old Year, was to us so novel, so peculiar and 

so delightful, that we cannot refrain from attempting to give, so &r at 

description can do it, a picture of that joy-abounding season. 

On Christmas afiemoon, our physicalities having been fortified for the 

evening, and prepared to undergo the toils of laughter, by a plentifbl 

Christmas dinner, varied conversation and parlor amusements oocnjued 

the company very agreeably during the earlier portion of the evening. 

The guests invited having all at length assembled, a small tree, covered 

with gifts, was suddenly brought in, and exposed to our admiring view. 

While the beauty of this was calling out exclamations of delight from 

all, and we momentarily expected the scissors to commence their work in 

cutting off the presents for distribution, there appeared near by the tree^ 

an old man, with bent form, trembling limbs, sUver locks, apectades and 

eane. Baiph Hoy t has almost perfectly described him : 

** Buckled knee and shoe, and broad rimmed hat, 

Coat MB ancient as the form 'twas folding, 
Silver battons, queue, and crimpt cravat, 
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding, 

There he sat» 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad rimmed hat" 

His voice had the quiver of age in it, as he feebly addressed hia childrea 
and grandchildren, frolicking, all mirth and enjoyment, around him. 
But suddei^y interrupting him, in bounded that jolly, fat and funny old 
el^ Santa Claus. His array was indescribably fiintastic. He seemed to 
have done his best; and we should think, had Mrs. Santa Claua to hdf. 
him. The poet who sang of him the song — 

" *Twas the night before Ohristmai , ■ " 

froold Jiaxdly havB recognized him, yet we knew it oould be no othk 


than the old Mow himseUl In a moment we heard the old man acooti* 
iBgiiiiny apparently improyising as near as we can remember a rhyme 
lib the following : 

Wall, if there isn't Santa Olaiu, jolly old fellow, 

All finified off in his blue, red and yellow ; 

Come, give us your hand, very welcome Si Nick, 

Turn around, let us look at your tidy and slick 

HalHliments; merry old Santa, do tell 

How ydu manage to keep yourself looking so well : 

Why 1 where haye you been since the last time we saw yon. 

And where are the rein deer you used to make draw yoaf 

dome, Nicholas Sanctus, and tell us the way 

You've spent all your time since the last Christmas day; 

We know by your looks that you're surely not lazy, 

And we cannot divine how you ever keep easy, 

Through all the long year between Christmas and Christman^ 

Connecting the two like a temporal isthmus. 

We'd all like to ask, funnyissimus Santa, 

(You see we are speaking £Euniliarly,) can't a 

Fine story be told of your doings around 

The world as you ride to your merry bells' sound I 

Pray I how do you manage to keep your old face 

So unwrinkled, for Thnpua^ they say, moves apace, 

And carries all common folks with it, you know, 

And imcommon ones too, saving some who won't go I 

Now you, I imagine, so merrily twinkle 

Your eyes, and so free is your face from a wrinkle, 

Are one of the sort who ** take Time by the forelock," 

And, leading him out, tttm the key in the docr-loeh, 

Joy-bringing St Nicholas, little old Youth, 

We are right glad to see you — ^but Santa, in truth, 

Since you're with us, we'd like to be taking our pick 

Of all the nice things you have brought us ; be quick I 

Step up and cut off and distribute around 

The pretty things which in profusion are found 

Suspended by you from the boughs of that tree, 

Composing a spectacle brilliant to see I 

Come, Santa Claus, though we're reluctant to hurry 

You upk yet we are in somewhat of a flurry. 

To know what the presents you've gathered to please us 

Can be~do distribute them then, and thus ease us. 

Sinta took it all in most merry mood, and capered about, jabbering 
id joldng, for he was a witty rascal, till the old man straightened out 
is stiff back as well as he could, and hobbling along on his staff led St. 
fide by the hand toward the tree, and requested him once more, to 


iblfiU kk niarion. Thk he did to the infinite aaiiiiement and n e t ya o ti o n 
of all present; ginng nice things, and pretty things, and fanny things te 
** young men and maidens, old men and children'* abondantly. Ddight* 
ftd it was to see the man of bnsinesa bidding the caridng cares of bie be- 
gone, and in place of their ngly fiioes, and those of men toil-dried and 
withered and wrinkled before their time, looking upon the dieeriul &08S 
of happy friends, and freed for a time from all that could make life's 
wheels drag heavily. To see the Rev. minister and D. D. with the s^nrit- 
nal welfare of multitudes for their care, moving gladly around, as if boy- 
hood had come again, amid the lau^ and joke and brisk repartee, them- 
selves laughing and dipping their hands as gleefblly as the youngest 
there. This woi a ChrisUnas jubilee / 

To this succeeded a series of the happiest gatherings, during holiday 
week, whereat the soberest laughed and the merriest were wild with glee, 
yet withal, methodical in their wildness. 

And at last when the cup of our enjoyments seemed brimming lull, 
another was suddenly added which crowned the *^ beahere hrimP with 
overflowing pleasure. 

For two or three days before 1850 took its leave, two of our number 
might have been seen now earnestly conversing, now laughing out as at 
some exceedingly happy thought, now clapping their hands and capering 
about most gleefully. Sometimes, it was rumored, the small hours of 
morning would surprise them at their confitbs. Yet to all, save one or 
two whose aid they seemed to need and with whom they were plainly in 
conspiracy, the why and wherefore of all this was wrapped in mystery. 

On the last day of the old year, invitations were received by the pa^ 
ticipants in the week's festivities and others, to assemble, and ^ watch 
the old year out and the new one tn," Here was a new idea — ^what did 
it mean ? what was to happen ! 

The evening came and with it the happy group, unwearied and unsa- 
tiated by their past enjoyments. Varied entertainments, extempore and 
full of life, jokes, reminiscences, burlesque oratory, readings, ^bc, led the 
way and made all oblivious of the flight of time. 

Meanwhile the hours were one after another tolled from the mantel 
dock, 0, 10, 11, till a single stroke announced the beginning of the last 
half hour of the year. The mysterious interlocutors in the midnij^t 
dialogues we have mentioned, had disappeared, and were seen no mors, 
at least in propriie pereonie, till the scenes I shall describe had changed 
from passing &cts to memories. 

Tan ndnntes yet remained of that mem<Hrable half c^tury, now de> 

1BIIJ| BOUHNirwm&- 

ptrted, when the folding door% which had some time before been quieClj 
dosed, were rolled aside, and all unexpectedly appeared, sitting conlj 
side by side, an aged couple, whom we learned were John Anderson and 
his loving spouse. Old age was again before us ; though we thought we 
could now and then detect beneath the blossoms of the almond tree the 
lineaments of John as he might have been when he was a smooth £Ekced 
7011th. Peihaps he might at such moments have been Uving over again 
lome scenes of boyish pleasure, and hence, for the time appeared to be 
t boy again. However, the dear old couple feebly talked together for a 
biief season of their sorrows and joys in years gone by, and soon in the 
tiemuloas accents of age, her hand upon his arm, and doating through 
her spectacled eyes upon his aged form, we heard the guidwife singings 

"John Anderson my Jo John/^ 
and as she proceeded, most affecting was that pious prayer — 

** Yet blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my Jo !* 

Then John lovingly faltered in reply. 

And ye wanr anco, mj guidwife^ 

Sae loed and sae caressed, 
The posy, buddin' i* the vale 

That blossomed on my breast. 
You're bonny hues hae iSeuled, 

But rU nae tak* it ill 
Pve loed ye lang and whiles ye live 

Yell be my dearie still 

Then the two sang how they 

** cUuaib the hill thegither," 

hot now 

" maun totter down 

And sleep thegither at the foot." 

Thdbr last quivering tones had but just died away, when groans, as' of 

•ome Bufforing one, were heard, and turning we beheld the emaciated, 

bent and tottering form of the Old Year t(»ling along on his last earthly 

pOgrimage. We felt that it was to his grave. Inexorable Time had 

gtvMi him hit hour glass, as if to warn him of his end, and the sands 

weie swiftly numbering his last departing moments. He labored wearily 

•long till, nearing John Anderson, he drew the old man's attention, who 

improvised again, 

Wha' maun ye be my totterin' friend ff 
Ye'ps aakl and sae am I, 


Oar Uwm tetni dimwin* to tbdr iMid^ 

I think we iooq idmid die. 
Maj be jou*re the departin' jmr. 

Ah I je«l I ken ye now, 
Te maun nae langer linger here, 

Thoee sands are ninnin' low. 

Alack ! m J guid anld frien*, methinka 

I canna say farewell, 
My ain auld heart in sorrow shrinks 

Frae hearin* the sad knell 
That soon shall o'er all bosoms roll 

A grief sae deep and sair, 
For when the midnight bell shall toU 

We ne'er may see thee mair. 

And wha's to come and tak* yoor plaeeff 

I fear me, he may be 
Some triflin', young, ungodly case 

We shall nae want to see I 
Bat fnen' your time has come at last ! 

Joat then the cock crew, and the dock b^;an to tell the midnight boor, 
while the old man continued, 

I heard the crowin' cock, 
One, two, three, four, the bell strikes fiut» 
Farewell, 'tis twelve o'clock ; 

and with the last word the Old Year had vanished from our view. And 
opposite to the place of his exit, while the old man said — 

** Who Cometh to the door t 
There's a new foot on the floor, my dear, 
And a new &uce at the door, my dear, 

A new face at the door," 

in qame dancing in highest glee the Happy !N>w Year ! singing — 

ni be hifidered no more I 

Ope the door, 

Clear the floor! 
For I come with the merriest cheer, 
And give me a chance 

To prance 

And to dance, 
For I am the Happy New Year 1 

Here entered a maiden prettily attized as spring, while the New Year 

IM.] ROSDAT max. 

For I bring 
Sweet ipriog 
To sprinkle her life-gi?iii^ ihowen ; 
Sweet April agaiu 
Shall rain, 
And then 
Come Hay with her tribute of flowers. 

Another followed in white and beautifully wreathed with fiow^v that 
looked most sweetly fragrant; this was Summer, and the New Year sang, 
greeting her : 

And Summer anon 
Coming on 
Shall don 
Bright garlands of prettiest posies, 
And her raiment of white 
Shall be bright 
With the light 
That is bom in the bosom of roses. 

Then came Autumn, dad in habiliments of sadder hue, and bearing 
sheares of ripe grasses and grains, whom the New Year welcomed, 

Queenly Autumn shall fill 
Each dell 
And hiU 
With the richest and fullest fruition. 
And shall freely outpour 
AH her store 
She shall fully accomplish her mission. 

Lastly, Winter came heavily clad with furs, and the New Year gave her 
a hearty welcome, with : 

Then shall Winter appear 
To cheer 
The year 
With a tribute of memories sweet» 
Though she freezingly goes, 
Nips the nose, 
Ye ker eoming shall joyfully greet 1 

Thai the New Year and his attendant Seasons, quickly forming in a liyely 
P'ooettion, jomed in a final chorus, to the tune CrarnbamiuUj 


We oooM, ▼• oome, with PMny gnttimg. 

We circling Seuooe with jamjoj. 
We oome to haste jour ghKl hMrte* bittinf^ 

Be pleaeore youn without elloj ; 
If ready then at dat7*8 call, 
A Happy New Tear greeta yon all. 
To all, to all we wish 

A Happy New Year 1 

Hiiis passed and ended our Christmas holidays. Tims deHgbtftilly 
our New Year. And as each season has appeared, it has bron^ 
memory of those scenes with it, and pleasant memories indeed 1 
been to us. 

And now, Reader, receive our holiday greeting — ^we wish you h 
— as gems set in the golden joys of the coming vacation — a truly 
Christmas and Happy New Year. j 

^^^t0^^*^»^*0^0^0m0^0^^^ ^ ^0^0^0^0^0t0^0^0m 


Oum Alma Mater ! Yale, time honored name 1 
Of long descent, and fair and honest fame ; 
Well mayest thou glory in thy pedigree. 
And well thy chQdren boast themselves in thee. 
Whose past extends through distant hoary years. 
Whose glorious future dims the sight of seers, — 
Whose oflbpring wide are scattered o'er the world 
Where truth is free, or freedom's banner furled, — 
Whose honored dead repose in every dime. 
Illustrious once, but canonized by time,—* 
Pure fount of learning, fiEur forever stand, 
The pride and bulwark of our natiye land. 
When Goths and Vandals burn each classic hall, 
Fair Freedom's structure too must shortly fiUL 
Once more wo bid thee twice and treUy hail 1 
Long mayest thou flourish. Alma Mater Yale 1 

In goodly row see yonder buildings stand 
*Mid arching dms, by sportive breeiei fiuHied; 
Approach with me this cool and calm retread 
Where founts Parnassian sparkle at our feet, 
Andf Nidas* cnrrent roUs its golden tide 

51:] TALE. 89., 

With untold treasures scattered at its side, 
Where he who wills may gather priceless store, 
Yet leave its wealth exhaustless as before. 

Here points to Heaven the unpretending spirt 
To guide above each wandering low desire, 
While mom and eve ascends the voice of prayer 
To Him who h<dds his earthly dwelling tbera. 

With book in hand, the monitor awhile 
His curious gate directs alorg the aisle. 
Kind hearted guardian, without much to please. 
And gracious oft to pleading absentees ; 
Qreat post of honor, goal of high desires, 
The Senior dig-nity to thee aspires ; 
Who gains thee comes to durance vile at last, 
A hempen rope about his — door made fast 

Beethoven's fame demands a passing word, 
Whose praise through all our College world is heard. 
Each base attempt that fame to vilify 
Henceforth in silence and contempt shall die; 
The organ's swell shall drown each grumbler's voice. 
And bid Beethoven s -tuneful sons rejoice. 
Thou mighty master, freed from mortal cares, 
Whose honored name our College bantling bears. 
From seats above, now /look propitious down, 
And let thy namesake share in thy renown. 
Long may its songs in grateful chorus blend. 
And ladies long on Sabbath eve attend. 

A moment glance along the aisles below, 
While from the desk the words of wisdom flow ; 
Affection warms the preacher's earnest plea. 
That with his Maker man at peace would be ; 
With reverent look the message some receive. 
But few, alas 1 remember or believe : 
And when the stream of argument grows deep, 
They skim its surface, or more likely sleep. 

With bell surmounted, and with turret crowned. 
The old Lyceum frowns on all around. 
At morn and noon, and eve's impressive hour, 
For lessons, meals, — resounds its noisy tower. 
Scarce sixty minutes through the livelong day 
Without its din, in silence pass away. 
Xantippe e'en with all her wealth of tongue 
Ne'er such unceasing tiresome changes rang. 
Here Sophs assemble in a noisy crowd, 
Ai timas I ween, * imperaUve and loud.' 
^^^ vm. 12 


Bettraint rdaxed, and for the moment free, 
All tbooghts of fizslea, flunks, and boring, flee. 

The AthenoBom next in all its glory. 
With telescope and eke observatory, 
Oar notice waits, nor shoidd it yainly wait,— 
To Yale's diplomas, Bunyan*s Wicket Gate, 
Through whose wide portal each succeeding class 
Of generous Freshmen must in order pass. 
There rushes oft an eager, earnest throng 
With Liyy*s fibs, or Horace's genial song ; 
Ulysses' wanderings here they oft repeat^ 
And scan his story with unwilling feet 
At Euclid's drawings with admiring gase, 
They wonder much, and stand in mute amasc. 

Enough. of this ; old Time is on the wing. 
As preachers say and poets sometimes sing. 
Days, weeks and months unnoticed disappear. 
And soon we greet a new and wished for year; 
Four such short periods yanish in their flight 
lake wildering dreams upon the trail of night ; 
And boyish scenes, ambition, toil and play 
Are borne, enfolded in their arms, away. 

Thou noble structure. Palace of the Nme, 

In Learning's courts the purest, dioicest shrine, — 

Great Treasure House, where all that's rich and grand 

In thought or time, is ever at command. 

Where gretLt ideas sparkling from the mind 

Are held in adamantine chains confined. 

To bum and glow, forever pure and bright. 

And scatter darkness with their radiant light, — 

In thee are centered high and warm desires^ 

And hopes enkindled at thine altar-fires. 

Which light the dreamer with their quenchless ray 

Through shades of night to everlasting day. 

Now may the Muse who makes my song her cart^ 
Of prudence grant her bard an extra share : 
With caution's hand I fain would touch the string 
Whose strains Yale's great frutemities shall sing. 
Linonia / most gentle goddess, hail 1 
To own thy merits let me never faiL 
Age yields respect^ and years are on thy head. 
Time's waving wings on thee have honors shtd ; 
Badi year new Jewels binds upon thy crown, 
And dedBi thy laoreli with a fresh rtnowo. 

I.] THX TRIirOM WHICH LIFX 18 ufat. 

Thou Band of Brothers I glorious, firm and ttroQg, 

Haod grasped in hand, unbroken flourish long I 

Vain were the task to swell thy boundless fSune 

Or add new honor to thine honored name. 

" Jn Unitate Fratrei* stand for aye 1 

And age shall bring no wasting slow decay. 

Be banished strife ; though not the self-same hall 
Contains the whole, are we not 'Brothers* allt 

And thou, our Sister, youngest of the three, 
My song some tribute fain would render thee. 
Child of the South, thou needest closer care, 
Well nigh frost-bitten by our Northern air. 
Hay kinder suns henceforth upon thee shine, 
With rays life-giving and with smile benign, 
And thou, a generous rival, hold thy place, 
Nor lag behind the foremost in the race. 

Be hushed the song ; for tipie alike would fiul, 
To sing the praises or the worth of Yale. 
Around her path be health abd wealth and peace, 
Her honors ripen and her years increase. 
When thronging centuries cluster round her way, 
May no dishonor stain her later day. 
But glory crown with laurel-wreath her brow, 
Forever young, forever fair as now. 


E ! Human Life ! — that bitternsweet reality which aU men \jbtm 
me can comprehend, — so long the hackneyed compontion-iheiiie 
ry school boy writer, the suggestive subject on which every poet 
splayed his powers, the important topic of all sermonizera, the 
hought of physicians and the constant study of metaphysicians, — 
us assumed in mens' ideas almost as many appearances as the 
,n fjEuse divine' possesses in reality. Its aspects ever vary, for it is, 
Proteus, endlessly changing its shape, or like a Chameleon dis- 
l itself in coats of many colors. 

letimes it even seems as if men looked at Life through spectacles of 
it tinted glass or varying magnifying powers. One man has ob- 



tained the gentiine ^ glorification glasses,*' and to him our Life on earth 
teems ineffably magnificent, while a neighbor underrates its value because 
his lorgnette has been perverted and reversed, and therefore lessens 
every object. Another thinks that Life is dark and disagreeable, and all 
because his glass is of a smoky hue ; to another all around seems ^blue,' 
or naught appears save through a sea-green medium. The glasses of 
another awkwardly distort, from their imperfect manufacture; all that is 
seen by their assistance, and others are so formed as only to allow a ?ery 
narrow field of view, so that only portions of Life can be examined by 
their aid. We are also sure that there must be glasses of a double re- 
fracting power, some men are so used to " seeing double.** One thing is 
fortunate, — these so-called "Helps to See" may at any time be changed. 

It is however very curious to observe how the various ideas of Life hare 
been expressed at different times by different kinds of men. Some lym- 
phatic being says that Life is nothing but a winter's day, a journey to the 
tomb, an empty dream, a vision, or a fleeting show ; to another Life is a 
mystery, a puzzle, a riddle to be guessed or a problem to be solved ; and 
again we hear it likened to a prison bond which must here be worn and 
will hereafter be removed, a gem which must here be carefully preserv- 
ed and polished, and hereafter prized. The plausibility of our belief 
in a future life has been shown by comparing the days of man to the life 
of the worm, the chrysalis, the butterfly ; and our present existence has 
been likened at other times to * a flight over a yawning gulf,' a * day'e 
labor before the rest of heaven,' * a preface' to a book which is to be 
written in another world; * a cup' of sorrow or of joy which we are min- 
gling now, to be drunk hereafter. 

Solomon likened Life to *the silver cord' and the * golden bowl;» 
Paul often compared it to a warfare, and the Great Teacher told us 
that the days of man were as grass, * as a flower of the field, so he per- 
iaheth ;' Bunyan pictured Life as a long and wearied Pilgrimage up the 
Hiil ci Difficulty and through the Plains of Ease; Dr. Johnson formondy 
ocHupaised it to an Eastern Caravansary; and we believe it is *Poor 
Bichard' who has a verse denoting Life as like *' an Inn,' — 

' Who goes the soonest has the least to pay */ 

the poet Pope says Life is * a taper wasting the instant it takes fire ;' thf 
painter Cole glowingly pictured upon his canvas the protracted ' Voyage' 
of life; Tupper declares that 

" Life is a strange ayenue of various trees and flowers, 
JijghtiOina at commencement, but darkeLing to its end in a distant Bsasay portaV 


and adds a score of lines expanding Lis idea ; Longfellow alludes to * the 
battle-field of Life,' and says, 

*' Our hearts, though Birong and hrave, 
Still like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave ;** 

Biyant speaks of each man's Life as a * chase for his favorite phantom ;, 
even the common paper-wafer stamped with a checker-board a8se¥a^ 
ites in black and white, that *^ such is Life T' — Goethe, we think, declared 
his aim to make his Life like the course of a star, and adopted for his 
motto " Haste not, rest not f one of Burke's famous orations began with 
ealling the attention of his audience to ' what shadows we are and what 
riiadows we pursue ;' Byron says, ^ Between two worlds Life hovers like A 
star;' Young, in his Night Thoughts, tells us, * Life's little stage is a 
imail eminence — inch high the grave above ;' and Sir Isaac Newton 
ipoke of his Life, when near its close, as having been a ramble upon tha 
itrand of the ocean of eternity, where he had gathered a few bright sheik 
and pebbles and that was all ! 

Shakespeare alone has a long list of similes denoting Life. It is with 
him a walk, a shadow, a thread, a shuttle, a web of mingled yam ; it is 
a& afiter dinner sleep, a night, a dream, a twice told tale ; it is mudc and 
it ia pain ; it is a bond which must be canceled ; it is a clock, a breath, 
a jewel, a stream, a journey, a paradise; a fool of deaths, a traveler, a 
prisoner, a racer. 

We have thus thrown together the similes of Life, without attempting 
to arrange or classiiy, or to point out the difference in the active and 
the passive views which men have taken of its nature ; but we shall 
find upon examination, that men's daily occupations have an influence 
on the views they take, the pictures they make of the nature of Life. 

So plain a man as a shoemaker will say that the present Life is like the 
faet, — ^the base on which the more important concerns of another Life 
^wnd ; that compared with these, it is low, humble, unassuming ; as- 
king us moreover, that on the conduct of * the sole and understanding/ 
the prosperity of * our higher state' of being rests. 

A husbandman would Hken Life to some choice plant which he was 
cherishing, or say that it was a tree in the great nursery of Providence, 
and hid us remember that ^as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.' 
A physician likens Life to one vast hospital, and a schoolmaster would 

*^y that it is a school for ^ children of a larger and a smaller growth.' 
A mechanic may liken Life to a large workshop where every thing is 

BOW being finished for examination at the World's Fair, ^ the Qreat £xhi< 

^^' whidk is to oiM daj open. 


A traveler thinks life is a sail, or ride upon the railway, or a waUc upo& 
« winding path leading over rugged and over easy roads. 

A printer might tell us, as one who is not a printer has told us, that 
Life is a hook, formed from innumerahle little letters, words, sentences, 
and punctuation points, bidding us heed the commas, lest, unimportant 
in themselves, by being out of place they may pervert the mesning. 
The iamous epitaph which Franklin once composed for his own tombstone 
employs the same comparison, closing with the hope that the Great Aa- 
tkor will revise the work, and bring it forth in a new and more elegant 

And to what shall we students liken Life ? May it not with propriety 
he compared to a Library, whose well stocked shelves contain all possible 
varieties of works, carefully separated according to their subjects and a^ 
ranged in different alcoves. Men seem to go through Life as they would 
through such a Library. Now and then there enters one who gives a little 
while to each department, wandering from alcove to alcove, till he has 
completely gone the rounds of the circle of the Sciences. Sometimes 
too there enter those who saunter in two or three recesses tiU they have 
found such works as suit their power or meet their wants, and then, sat- 
isfied at once, they take their seats. Most of the visitors however, qui- 
etly go to whatever alcove stands the nearest, and there they sit, not 
earing to move and not knowing that there is ought beyond, until the 
Grim Janitor bids them to leave, for the doors must now be dosed. One 
man thus gives himself to trade and commerce. Journals and Ledgers 
being the only works on the shelves which he has chosen ; another is 
deeply studying in the alcove of the Natural Sciences ; while a third is 
swrrounded by Statute Books and Law Reports, the standard works of 
Medicine, or the writings of * the Fathers.' 

One alcove of this Library possesses an especial interest, for it is a k^ 
of compend of the whole, being filled with ^ summaries," dictionaries," 
asd huge ^ encyclopaedias." It is in fact a place which gives a sort of 
panoramic or a birds^ye \4ew of all the Library, where one may take a 
glance at the whole range of human science, and then decide where he 
will go and study deeper. Here then we who lead a Collie life are 
placed, indeed so much engrossed in lexicons and compends as ofien to 
be named in sport * the walking cyclopaedias.' But in this Library, which 
kuman Life resembles, poetry has no especial place. There is no Poet's 
comer. There is indeed a much frequented spot where works of fiction 
and of pure imagination may be found, but that true poetry which lies 
in thou^^t and not in words is difiused throughout the Lilnrary, and is 


— ^ — . — — . ■ . — - ^ ■ ■ ^ — ^ 

often found where least expected. Some shelves indeed are crowded full 
and quite weighed down with the huge folios of Poetry, while those de- 
voted to some other science have only now and then a winning little 
pocket volume, yet there is not one alcove, no matter to what subject 
given, but what contains at least a small poetic portion. Even in the dus^ 
tiest, darkest comers some poetry is fouijd. The College students' alcore 
possesses more than any other, for it contains works drawn from all the 
Yaried sciences, the heavier and the lighter, while the very walls within 
which he studies, like some far famed baronial hall, are hung with quaint 
Mid interesting relics, suggesting crowds of pleasant thoughts to those who 
linger in then- precincts. 

Or if we students choose, we may consider hunpan Life as but an en- 
laiged, expanded revision of our College life, and then it behooves us to 
warn ourselves to be prepared for high honors at its termination, and for 
a good appearance at the Great Commencement which will be its close* 

D. 0. G. 

^^-LJ-U-U-UXfWU'W'If W — W w -^^ i * »»^»»^^^»»^»^^ 

(([i)e ^itarnvts axib ^ntits of (Bo{U%t £\U. 

Haying been suddenly visited with the idea of appearing as an 
author in the distinguished and valuable Literary Magazine of our hon- 
ored Institution, we have been induced to attempt performing the de- 
lightful task of acquiring a little popularity in this, to us, a novel method. 
For although it has been our good fortune to assume the dignity of the 
Orator, and more recently the troubles, cares and perplexities oi the 
Bditor, a very important office by, the way, yet until the present instance 
no opportunity has been presented to us to become at once a literary 

The important reason of our commencing this essay is, chiefly, the fiMt 
that students too often look askance and unfavorably at the duties thej 
are required to perform ; regarding themselves as under a restraint, bound 
down and in subjection to lords and masters — to despots even. This 
it extremely unfortunate for themselves as well as tmpleasant for their 
instroctors, and our design at this time is to do what we can to introduoe 
t reform in the feelings we entertain towards our ' Alma Mater.' 

We have entitled our essay, ^'The Pleasures and Duties of CoUege 
life,'' but fear that time will fail, if we attempt to point out any thii^ 


in regard to the duties, except when connected with the pleasures we 
experience while sojourning here. Of course we must commence with 
the " ^gs" and proceed in order with the various topics which may 
be deemed worthy of note, until we approximate as near to the 
** apples'^ as possible, although these as yet seem to hang in the distance 
of the ^dim shadowy future,^ 

To begin then with Freshmen days : what a delightful relief it is to be, 
at once and for all, freed from the irksome duties of school, attendance 
upon ushers, pedagogues, &c^ (especiaUy when the rod and ruler are * a 
higher law' from which there is no appeal,) and to be permitted to ride 
to town on the top of the stage-coach for the purpose of being examined 
to enter College ! What language can fully express the feelings of the 
youthful aspirant for college honors, as he, for the first time in his life, 
treads the walks beneath these ' classic shades V Not Presidents, Kings 
and Queens, none, even the greatest of human kind, enjoy sensations 80 
immeasurably exquisite as his. To be a Freshman is the acme of the 
schoolboy's ambition ; and the importance he manifests increases directly 
as the smallness of his intellectual power, and inversely as the amount 
of his knowledge. His desire to be admitted * protrudes' during the 
whole of his examination, and if, to his sorrow, he is then excused 
from connecting himself with the Institution, he still finds consolation in 
the thought * that some folks can't appreciate talent' But should he 
chance to be successful, even though his admission be somewhat eoudi- 
tional, the common level and common air cease to be appropriate for 
him. He now prepares to enter upon college duties with zeal and v^^or, 
confident in his own mind, that a proper degree of application wiD 
eonfer upon him the first honors of his Class. 

Delighted witli his instructors, and inclined to be very friendly toward 
them, admiring the works he is called upon to peruse ; pleased with the 
situation of his allotted room ; enjoying the best literary society con- 
nected with College ; initiated into the grand and peculiar mysteries of 
that little world in itself, a Secret Society ; he forms but few acquiunt- 
ances, and for a while continues in an upright course. Without a mu^ 
mur he submits to all the rules and regulations contained in the so-called 
** Freshman's Bible," the College Laws, and finds great pleasure in being 
never absent, and always * prepared.' He is seldom ill, and when he is 
•o his indisposition is evidently simon pure. But his ambition gradually 
wears off as he hears the members of the upper classes telling how 
easily they take things, recounting the various adventures in which they 
haye been engaged, their hair breadth escapes, and their never fiuling 


good-lack when they are ' smart.' Thus the pleasures of College fife, 
whieh are not strictly enjoined upon him, are placed as a snare in his 
pith, and with youth's heedlessness and inexperience in the wOes and 
arte ci the tempting Sophomore, he falls an easy prey to temptation ; 
denring at least to taste the forbidden fruit, in order that, like mother 
fiv«^ 'he may learn the ways of the world.' At the first transgression 
lui oonscienoe deeply stings him for his folly, and with a resolutkm 
worthy of a hero, he at once attempts to repent and be a man again. 

^Facilis descensus Avemi^ is taken as exclusively applicable to Seni<Hr8 ; 
bat with far more propriety, in our humble opinion, may it be made to 
nfer to the Freshman of the third term, especially if his probation hat 
aided and he is fuUy a *' mernber of the Institution." His rusticity haa 
lom o£f sufficiently to allow him to approach within ten or fifteen leet 
of A College officer before he removes or touches his hat. 

Aftw passing through the various trials and the pleasant studies and 
taBminations of the first year ; having been permitted to strive icft prizes, 
a soHolarship or some other honor ; having been perhaps elected by ap- 
proving Classmates, to the honorable post of ' Vice Secretary' in his lit- 
oary Society ; he casts his skin, and, like the snake, arrays himself in 
BKHe brilliant colors. 

hi the second year, the studies are more agreeable to those of a math- 
ttiAtical turn of mind, and the tragedies of ancient days perhi^ call up 
to hit recollection the scenes he has witnessed with his own eyes. The 
ueer distinctions of the most approved specimens of Grecian literature are 
pointed out to him, and he, as it were, luxuriates as an actor in the joya 
ttd aonows of by-gone days. He is moreover allowed the inestimable 
pDTilege <^ delivering ' essays' before his division, and (provided he 
tekea the popular side, and collects his arguments from standard works 
in tke Libraries) of being applauded, for the beauty and perspicuity of 
Ui style, as well as for his profound thought, deep investigation and 
Anoci^ knowledge of the subject Perhaps the officer differs from him 
b qkinion : if so, it is all the same to the student, for he knows, or saya 
k does, that the officer never knew, don't know and never will know 
Uy thing about tiie subject, and this is his consolation. Thus he passes 
10, permitted again to strive for the prizes and honors which are souroea 
i {deasure to those who receive them, and of envy to the unsnccessftiL 

We must not omit the important privileges lately added to vary the 
dMSQies of our CdU^e life, though only two ^and hx between," (yon 
enow what we mean, Reader, and remember what haa been said of 
Aikgels^ visits*') Not as in the division roomi, where we sit as close as 

vou xvn. 13 

tB ram puusubss amb dutibs or ooujmb los. [Dec 


pOMiUe when not aeqiudntad with the leasona, the student has now the 
fstreme aatigfACtion id knowing it is all * &ir play ;' that oonfidenoe i» now 
to be lepoeed entirely in hia own attainments^ and that'he must promalr 
gate for his own especial benefit alone whatever knowledge he poaseaMi 
oi the subject before him, without receiving any firom or imparting it to 
his neighbors. The conyeniences for this arrangem^t are admirably pse- 
pared, and at the commencement of the task, each one fi^ds himaelf on 
*his own hook,' " to hve or die, survive or perish," as the case may Im» 
The stadies of the first year are generally pretty &miliar to our hero, and 
with a happy heart and smiling countenance he hands in his work, ap- 
proved by his conscience for having uprightly, manfully and cheei:6i|lj 
performed his task ! But the sickness of the Sophomore year and a habit 
which then came upon him of recollecting the old adage in regard to 
sleep, '* seven hours for a man, eight for a woman, and nine for a fool,'* 
now so sadly impede his progress that he is almost ready to exclaim in 
the words of the poet, 

" Biannialt art a hora" 
fiiioiild he be fortunate enough to pass through the fiery ordeal, by the 
help of the wonderful dreamer and cool calculating guesser, he may 
thank his stars he has not been sacrificed for his inattenti(»i and n^eet 
of study. 

This year is sometimes noted more particularly for the correspondcMS 
earned on by particular friends at College with those at a distance, and 
frequently the state of the Sophomore's health is so precarious that a 
ahange of air is deemed worth a fair trial in his particular case. ' Change 
id pasture' is said ' to make frit calves,' and change of air has been knowi' 
to arouse stupid students to a better appreciation of their dutMs. 

Among other things not enjoined, but, on the contrary, expressly hh 
bidden, which however give variety to the Sophomore, is the costoBi of 
performing the mock ceremonial, entitled the ^ Burial of EacHd.' To om 
who never participated in such a ceremony, it might peihapa seen ds- 
tfidedly agreeable to don the many-colored coat of Joseph, the mask «f 
• Pdiyi^iemus, and other similar accoutrements, too numerous to mmisMf 
and, brandishing the dub of a Hercules, while vowing vengeaoaiee <m 
qpies and death to traitors, to expose one's self to the inclemeney of the 
weather during the worst seas(»is of mud, and to the dianoea of detection 
and punishment, and all this for the purpose of breaking th« laws of 
Odlege^ and bidding defiance to the officers of the Institution; while these 
who have participated may tell you, what glorious spent it is, and how^ 
as Time in his onward course bringK back the ever memorable night of 


their fright, fun and folly Uiey gather round the same old spot and oel*- 
hnte the annirersary of this important event of their CdUege ooofM. 
GloriooB sport it may be, but the sufferings which are occasioned by tint 
one dereliction from duty often continue through a life-time. It some- 
times happens that one who is the most innocent must be sacrificed to 
eaqpiate the guilt of the real sinners. 

A striking peculiarity must not be unnoticed, which is, the supreme telfr 
importance of the Sophomore, like that of the Miss just entered upon 
her teem. He feels his oats, to use his expression about some &Torite 
'^foMf^ horse, and desires to sow the wild oats while he is young. The 
gveat trouble he often occasions himself is ** that he is sometimei Miyed 
U harrow them inP 

• The third year is as little marked in its character, except in one or two 
particulars, as any in the course. A change of mental diet is here found 
Beoeaaary, and supplies are dealt out in proportion to the vacuum to be 
filled. At present the Class which occupy the least important pontion in 
College History are in a great measure obliged to travel the rough road 
by their own conveyances, and cannot trust so much as heretofore to tlM 
dunce of gttting a ride. And now warnings and admonitions having 
MM. to produce the desired result, it has been thought proper to act aa 
did the fieuiner in the fable, and try what virtue there is in something 
Bioie substantial. The kindness and the pleasantness of this treatmenti 
are appreciated, or at least should be, and certainly would be by an intelli- 
gent class. The exceptions particularly referred to, are, first, the announc- 
ing a graduated scale of appointments from colloquy up to Greek Oration, 
and then, the creditable performance of the several acts of the interest- 
ing drama at Junior Exhibition. These furnish pleasant and agreeable 
topioB ibr conversation, and more especially acquaint the dass with the 
d^giee of estimation, as scholars, in which the instructors hold each mdi* 
vidual, at this stage of the course. There is a great diversity of opinion 
in ifigard to the real benefit of Uiese distinctions, and the subject has offcen 
been debated with much earnestness ^^ whether the present system of 
eonliBrring College honors is, on tiie whole, beneficial." Arguments are 
adduced both for and against it, tiiey being, as it were, six of one and 
half a dosen of the otiier. Sometimes it happens that the Junior OUaa^ 
mUh their known generosity and magnanimity, think it proper to have 
a rival exhibition on tiie evening previous to that in the Collie ChapeL 
Hub takes place at some Hall in tiie city, and when it has been properly 
managed, has received tiie patronage of tiie beauty, talent^ and worth of 
the city. The exercises are intended to afford pleasure and variety, and 


aa oppottunily lor all saperfluoiift gaB to be Taeafeed, thereby pietr^ting 
the eiplonon whidi mig^t ensue after the ptodamiitioii of appomtiiiflnta. 
We iBUi§^ thai thoae who are noi ' poaled up^' eir in thnr opinion 
Ngpaidiiig the appointniait lists. Those who take Valedietoiies are lot 
•Iwaja the men of the most genius, but thej reottTe thmr reward kt 
constant application to nothing but studies, and that d^ree of inoennit 
eiertioa sometimes, perhi^ ill-naturedly, called "'digging J* This exhi- 
bition is one of those duties whidi are neither enjcMned nor forbidden, 
and, in &ct, some of ' the powers that be' hare attended them and ei- 
pro ss e d themselves gratified with the Tarious exercises, since they gi?6 a 
&ir sample of the natiye oratory ci the Class. At the close of the p«^ 
linrmanoe, a ' Wooden Spoon' is presented to some fortunate indindiiil, 
and the piiae is generally esteemed by him who receives it as a Iff 
gnater one than the Valedictory. 

The particular advantages which the third year poso osoos over its pie* 
deoesBon, is the privilege it affords of beginning to attend upon instill 
tive lectures and witnessing the many curious and entertaining expen- 
nants relating to several d^Mtrtments of science. 

The fourth year, however, seems to {»«sent to the in'tifttwi the ^ o(mmi 
4Mm dignUaUr of student-life, and were it not for one or two vexatioM 
of perhaps minor importance, such as ante-breakfast redtatioDS, Ac, ii 
would be by £ur the most agreeable year. Not but thai all experioMe 
great pleasure in attending at all times to these interesting pursuits ; Init 
the cold frosty mornings are r^;arded by some as detrimental to thar 
health, though this is an erroneous view of the case, inasmuch m vaA 
mornings would not have been caused by a wise and benificeni IVon- 
d^ioe, and filled with duties by wise instructors, w^e they really injuiioia. 

All, however, agree that it is a kind and proper arrangement, thai thoss 
who have passed three years here, doing honor to themselves and the ifr 
atitation, should have an opportunity of enjoying the society of the ladiM; 
aad consequently one hour of the middle of each day has been ^ipvd- 
priated for this especial purpose. One other topic deserves our notice he 
foie we coadttde. The monitorial system is particularly beneficial in itf 
results^ since ii allows to the members of aclass, all the privilege of know 
ing to a fraction the infinitesimal of a tardy mark, how many times thw 
chwsmates have or have not attended upon the exercises, without tki 
trouble of keeping their own accounts, a matter a little perplexing toasts 
dent^ although the science of book-keeping is practised to a considenM 
extent^ aa unfortunate owners can testify. 


In oondiudon, we maj remark in r^;ard to the different classes, that 
the course pursued, and the course to be pursued, is as follows : 

Fimt : Freshmen in their own estimation know everything, both respect- 
ing college and the world in general. Their instructors, on the contnuy, 
Imn a just appreciation of their true situation, and at the outset endeav- 
crto teach them that they know nothing. 

Secondly : Sophomdres are allowed by themselves to be the wisest and 
most intelligent of all the body of students, and are permitted by ihe^ 
light of experience to discover their own real ignorance. 

Thirdly : By the time they have fully entered upon the Junior year, 
the folly and ignorance of their former course have become apparent to 
themselves, and they learn at this time that they have just commenced 
their probation in college matters, and arrive at the conclusion that a 
man in order to pass through college to good advantage must necessarily 
continue eight years, and take two sheepskins, if he desires to cany dBT 
the prise of the ^ golden fleece." 

Lastly : The Sesnior looking back upon his previous efforts to acquire 
the reputation of a man of genius, and finding that he is unaUe to gain 
the desired end, finally concludes to adapt himself to circumstances, and 
let the world wag in its own way. It is an easy matter to graduate, un- 
las the ** angel's visit," just before presentation day, puts a break on the 
notary motion of his wheel ; but we fear that two-thirds of every class 
would find it difficult as graduates to pass examination for admission into 
the FVeehman Glass. 

We trust that no one, who takes the trouble to read this essay, 
till eonsider it a history of our own personal experience, for althou^ 
it may apply in some respects, in others it is by no means correct 
The ''apples," however, are as&r from reach as when we began, and 
•eem destined to remain in the dim, distant obscure, for a considerable 
length of time. If we have omitted any of the minor matters ftom 
which the student derives pleasure, we have only to allege want of time 
» our excuse. And as a last topic to be dwelt upon we have to say, that 
IS we see our day and generation drawing to a dose, so &r as College 
life ii concerned, we have the pleasure of recording for our classmates and 
their posterity, the many agreeable recollections of their worth, kindness^ 
i&bility and courtesy. This is one of those gratifications which are ex- 
pected to endure to the end of time, and we trust many others of a txm" 
^ aatore may be treasured up in the storehouse of memory. 

Ji. 0. B. 

102 A POAfiR FOR inroTTiOTR. [Dec 

^ IfioBtx for £injtii0t0. 


SoMB months ago, as I was walking by ''the Temple," when it con- 
tained a more fashionable shrine of Bacchus than now, I met a nther 
well dressed man staggering up from the adyta^ who said to me, with a 
slight brogue, 

^ Are you a scholar of tlie College, yonder?" 

I replied that I was, when he immediately asked me, 


I saw that I had chanced on a character, rather a drunken one, it wis 
true, but enough of one to excite my curiosity to know more of him; lo 
I mustered the little colloquial Latin I was master o^ and we carried on 
quite an interesting conversation. He said that he had graduated at 
Maynooth, the fitmous Catholic University at Dublin, and his volubility 
in quoting and talking both Latin and Qfeek, o(mvinoed me that hii 
story was true. He complained of ill treatment at the bar, below^ became 
he had no more money for them, and to learn more of him, I aakad 
him to let me pay for him. He thanked me veiy poHidy ; said that be 
really was dying £or another potation of gin, and so we went together to 
the bar. Here he drank my health with a gentlemanly and scbolailj 
flourish of words and gestures, and as the good liquor took effsct, he be- 
came decidedly communicative. His story was that he was a younger aon, 
and had studied for the church, but that he had never taken orders, — if tbat 
is the correct expression — ^but had been a tutor in schools in Dublin soi 
in this country ; that he had Men into the snares of Baochus and Vems 
«nd had lost property and character ; that he had done regretting bk 
conduct, as he felt the impossibility of ever reforming. I endeavored to 
influence him to make uiother attempt, but he said, 

^ Let me go my way : it'll be a short path for me to the grave. Tci 
I was a man once, and a gentleman's son and a scholar, the pride of xaf 
college. No one could beat me in the Latin ; here is one of my owi^ 
sentences, — see if you can render it — ^it is difficult, I know, but you witt 
let me boast that it is rhetorically and religiously beautiful ; Fve but little 
to boast of. Sir." 

b\ta, cmtem, ttt mvas^ l)ominmn« m noftctre UnMa, qitiSi ((wSBf^ 

Unable to render it, he gave me a translation which was, as he sai^f 


1 indeed. (To give the curious an opportunity to try their skill 

)ring hard Latin, we withhold the translation, hy permission of 

er, till our next number. — ^Eds.) 

uties called me away, and I lefib him, exacting a promise that he 

ome to my room. He never came. 

e offered this sentence to tutors and prize scholars, and others, but 

only one instance found a translator, and he was not quite right* 

is a true story, entirely true, and thou^ simple, may have the^ 

to others that it has to me. r. 

fltrtpe for a (([f)emical €tttnvt. 


Takv aboat t^o dozen girls, 

SoBie with smooth luur, one with cork; 

Take the Senior Class of College, 

Some making Icnre, some getting knowledge; 

Sixteen interesting Meds., 

With dirty hands and towzeled heads ; 

A Scholar of the House; three "Laihs,** 

With legs and feet curled up like crabs ; 

A table with a monstrous sink in H, 

Bell-glasses and a lot of drink in it ; 

One expert and wise Professor, 

And an everlasting mess o' 

Bottles, flasks and champagne glasses ; 

And Weld, t]^e jovial Yale Agassiz ; 

Mix these up as I direct you, 

And 7011 will have a Chemic Lecture. 


Bubble, bubble 1 
Single, double I 
Toil and trouble ! 

Tighten thisi 

SlackMi that I 

Whiten this 1 

Blacken that ! 

Let this corrode ! 
Let that explode ! 

104 THE OREAnm DisTiironovs nr BTATmiAirsHip. [Dee. 

Ifingle tlM nDgle onesl 
TroabbtliedouUAoiiMl ^ 

** Robert 1 come lierar 

"RobertI gotherer 

Let thie be upheld, 
Let that be withheld, 
"Tike this, Mr. Weld r 
•* Take that, Mr. Weld r 
Bubble I babble 1 

— babblinf— babbUof— 

Toil and troable! 
-^oiliflf t ioabUaf. 

Mix like thia and I expect joa 

'L get a oomie diemic lecture I m. w. t. i. 

ruWJVU>J'tf-WW" g " i " - * * * ** aa^^^^^^ 


Cl)e <Brtattr IDtBtlnrtionB hi 0tatt0maii0l)t|i. 

BT 1. D. WWJTEf SJRAOatMf M. T. 

Evert age miuit find men to mould into usefttl fcmns its whimB^ «iid to 
clench sturdily its temporal heresies. These are, by oommon oonaeati 
pontifEs among the mental hierarchs of their times, and represeDtativeBof 
the aggr^ate worldliness of their nations. Propped by stout shafts of 
native wit, invested in the robes of acquired learning, served by their 
own tensely-nerved energies, they play at will the sinews of the body 
politic, of which, theoretically, they are but single constituents. These 
are they, who delve among the imbedded weaknesses of th^ times, to 
bring forth new motive principles, — ^who stir the passions of men, ihat 
these principles be developed in action, who shiver the incrustatioDS of 
national folly, that this action be unrestrained. Perfect statesmanship iB» 
at any period, cast in a prophetic mould, — ^a type of that which, as yet, is 
not ; future perfectneas outlined by present need gives it swathing; it is 
of the present only by sufiferance ; too often, it is cradled reluctantly, 7^ 
it is the most veritable of autochthons, a true bantling of the euHS 

There was a statesmanship of old, which, pampered by emperors and 
urged on by courtiers, too often made the trampling on inferior states ao<i 
the covert undermining of superior sovereignties, its main endearor. 


There was a mediaeval statesmanship, which could be influenced, at any 
time, by the bickerings of old houses ; and which, beneath the kindliest 
facery, but by means despicable between man and man, was wont to plot 
perplexities for its neighbors. Haughty patronage to the sciences, and 
crusts flung to men of letters, wheedle from us a benediction on the for- 
mer; skillfully-planned jousts, and bestowal of honor on deserving com- 
moners do a like service for the latter. Each has been neatly aproned 
with a fabric of occasional victories, or discoveries, or works of genius. 
Either might, in its nobler aspects, be identified with the architecture of 
its age. The Greek and Roman, cold, symmetrical, glossy ; every line 
straight or curved geometrically ; every combination in outline, squared, 
or triangulate. Seeming exceptions, like the Acanthus, were trained into 
a supercilious regularity. Of grotesqueness there was nothing. In the 
mediaeval statesmanship, as in its architecture, there was as great haught- 
iness, as in the ancient ; but it was a haughtiness, between lord and bound 
helper ; not as of old, between master and man ; a haughtiness, which, 
after toil, could become mirthfulness, and which exacted little, that any 
scrupled to pay. Through the manifold austerities of the time, there 
came gleams of kindness, and even of joviality. The old smoothness 
was roughened ; old gothic crocketry, and oaken high-backs, might frown 
upon the populace ; demons' eyes peering through the carved leafing, and 
seeming tongues of flame, lambent in the enchasements of a capital, or 
flickering abput a window, may have discomposed those brought before 
the mediaeval tribunal ; but there were also laughing eyes, and pleasing 
pictures. Curiously modelled jests, and most mirthful bundles of carved 
witticisms, appear even among the crosses and monograms of their ca- 

Ancient statesmanship, more particularly that of the Koman Empire, 
seems bent on aiding those, who, by mere luck, had clambered into pow- 
er; the mediaeval, to have defended those in authority, as the anointed 
of the Deity. In one, all seems harmonious rule — ^in the otlier, a kind of 
illegitimate inspiration ; the former, usurps an obility by its isolation — the 
latter, a sympathy by its close jointure to the swarm below ; the manifes- 
tations of one, were as like, and as regular, as the pillars of its temples — 
the others shot into forms as unlike and disconnected, as its notched and 
scattered pinnacles. One system seems best expounded by the classic 
historians — ^the other has found no better vehicle than Froissart's Chroni- 
^ tangled in the movement, simple in the plot, often approximating to 
Ae barbarian, yet none the less fascinating or instructive. The former 
njled as its own tutelar divinity, fresh from the brain of infinite fore- 




oast — ^the latter, as one of the Scandinavian goddesses, strong and buxom, 
something less than the dei^ed, yet by shrewdness and skill in intrigue, 
al^e to vex mightily the strongest of the old deities. Between their less 
satisfactory workings, Coleridge's pithy distinction holds, that formerly, 
"Men were worse than Principles, but that afterward, Principles w€re 
worse than Men." 

These systems have passed away. Old thought, with its old propor- 
tions of kindness, surliness and bigotry, has been newly crucibled, to meet 
the wants of an age, far differently composed. The statesmanship of to- 
day, is that, which, after the outlawry of mediaeval school doctrine, in its 
conjunction with the vagaries of the olden philosophy, first began to creep 
into the worid's notice, during the last years of Henry the Eighth of Eng- 
land ; that which the fires of Smithfield could not blister ; that which 
was bearing all before it, when Laud, opposing, spoke of passive obedi- 
ence with vague beauty, and Filmer, with sophistical force ; that which 
James the Second tried to modify, and lost his crown ; that which, more 
than any other, is clutched fast from beneath, by the popular will. 

It can hardly be denied, that the ascendant policy of the present, tends 
toward Republicanism. Genius in Political affairs, rarely among us seeb 
its apotheosis, by adherence to old ft w H i Iiea. Our idea of a favored son 
of the present, gives us no image of talent, playing the part of Atlas, 
beneath a bulk of rejected systems. Autocracy may sneer at all wa^ 
rant for its acts, save the Dei Gratii, but its servants know well that 
scores of popular edicts, must be roped about one, which shall strength- 
en its despotism ; know it, and practice on their knowledge. Why ebe 
are concessions, or fdtes, or progresses ? Old clamps of superstition, 
which formerly fixed the poorer blocks of the social fabric, to its polished 
comer-stones, are well rusted, and men seek for better ; all the nicely shut- 
tled vestments of loyal proverbs, and cunningly twisted logic, grow thread- 
bare ; warp and woof are decayed, and men scan closely the proportions 
of the wearer. 

Among the most prominent characteristics of modem statesmanship, is 
plainly a greater directness in its operations. Certain principles have be- 
come so generally recognized, that a weaker nation can come directly at 
any just object, though it be to the detriment of its more powerful ne%h- 
bors. Hence, national alliances do not hold their former importaoee; 
they hardly compass more than an ancient treaty, while they are far more 
burdensome to our master minds. The moves which so well suited old 
sluggishness, are out of vogue, and nations now push their interests more 
freely ; single agencies are preferred, and men laugh over their old trivi- 


alities. The leaders of the middle ages were in the beginnings <^ states- 
manship, and were scrawling their boyish pothooks ; our tim« sees its 
prime servants, advanced to the straight, keenly-pointed strokes in state 
management. There remains in diplomacy, much of the old politeness ; 
but new truths are broached with a bluntness, of which our ancestors 
blew nothing. Where the course of hostile procedure was in the mid- 
dle ages covered with smiles, and in times more ancient foreshadowed 
1^ cruelties, the modem system, often with ludicrous earnestness, lays 
down reasons, or loudly denies blame. 

Another trait of the modem statesman is boldness in coming at ike 
means of power, A leading spirit in mediceval times had a monastic love 
for old treatises, and their conservative effluvium. There was about his 
natural good sense, an enamel of strange learning ; of deductions from 
those sly hypotheses, which men then loved to propose as puzzles ; of li« 
turgic stiffiiess, which made him awkward, in many of his boldest endeay- 
on. A crevice, through which came ancient light, was widened with 
great caution, and greater formality. The modem leader hastens at once 
toward the light, which shall aid him ; old barriers are pried asunder, or 
broken down ; old causeways unheeded, and thought takes the most di- 
rect path to its object. 

These scramblings may not seem so dignified, as the steady tramp in 
fittmer years ; but their achievements are more satisfactory, because more 
ahrapt A titter may run round the earth, at such seeming oddities in 
pdity, but wonder at the results, soon compensates the ridiculed. No 
doubt Bacon, with all his wish to break his nation from its anchorage in 
past abuses, would have been more fully assured of the possible insanity 
of states, had he foreseen the prim decencies of his age, ripped and 
leorched by the impetuosity of ours ; but he would, also, have gained new 
ideas of mental capacity, and given new canons for mental force. Great 
men of these latter days, most clearly show this boldness, when they 
plunge among the dynasties of error. Then comes the world's surfeit of 
joeolarity. Popular feeling may read its riot act against forcible encroach- 
ments on established principles, but it could hardly bear the loss c( its 
liearty laugh at the sight of young energy upsetting old pomposity. 

Hodera statesmanship is also less diffuse In its appliances. It is be- 
coming an axiom, the world over, that the statesman has to do wholly 
with temporal affairs. The last and strongest arguments against this no- 
ble advance, were annihilated, when Macaulay answered Mr. Gladstone. 
Out doctrine of equality among thinkers, now scorns all aid from oasuis^ 
tiy. Willing to be tned by those laws only, which are supreme, oyen 


pfejudiced deductions, truth has struggled long and manfidlj, until it irks 
the masters of nations, to outdamor the cries of men only anxious for 
their long lost heritage. Here is the great advance, — Church and State 
may cohere for a time longer, but the regenerate earth shall see no more 
Torquemadas, no more bloody Marys, no more Grahames of Cluvav 

The Grecian, in his training for high position in the State, was fond of 
a garb of toleration. It was convenient, and not dearly bought ; it wts 
becoming, and under especial sanction of the leaders of fashion. But 
this cloak was too stiff, with its noble embroideries of old truism. The 
very weight of its gilded threads of precept, tired the wearer, in the 
plain work of the State ; it was therefore laid aside for gala days, wbidi 
might be caused by success in fettering a troublesome truth. The Altar 
to the Unknown, showed the seeming — ^Paul on Mars' Hill, Iband 
the true. 

The Roman gave this poor picture little betterment. He would hate 
been kind, but to gain success, court must be paid to its supposed autlion. 
As modem barbarians after ill luck, scourge their rough hewn deitiea, lif 
way of punishment, so the Roman flattered his gods as a preventire. 
This flattery often bore hard upon those supposed to be enemies d 
religion. There was much kindness in the Roman composition, hot &r 
more of a lofty selfishness, which turned all wounds from his natioiial 
pride, though it cost his individual prosperity. This selfishness was 
another great cause of injury to the propagandists of new truths. 

The Mediaeval Statesmanship in its contact with Religious systems, was 
wily and prompt Ail the little inequalities in the prevailing belief irm 
soon forgotten under the skillful filing of Masters in Theology ; the greater 
and sharper projections were cared for by the councils. Statesmen ibm, 
were as cool in their dealings with refractory intelligences, as their prede- 
cessors had been ardent Leaders in Schism were monstrosities, ungaislf 
and infectious. The schoolmen crushed their appeals to reason, benesA 
their shields of metaphysical knowledge ; the lords spiritual cut them 
from their earthly relations, and the secular arm graciously arrayed them 
in the hm^benito. All these powers were lent by their holders to the 
statesman, but it was well if these sufficed him. He often called the 
satirist to fxssLQ the more subtle structure of his victim, to make ludicrous 
warfare upon his motives, — ^to bring forth from the crannies of his heart 
its neatly stowed meannesses ; to pull the nerves, which should set askew^ 
the whole face of his professions. Under such^ influences, disaffected 
natioiiB soon became as meek as the countenances of their oppreasors. 


It is ever expected from the Chief Servant of State, as perfeet in his 
craft, that all the intricacies of diplomacy shall be traversed by his model 
enginery ; that every part in his mental conformation shall be ponderous, 
to give the idea of authority, yet that each possess a flexibility ; which 
shall make easy its adaptation to every anomaly in polity, — a litheness, 
which shall enable him to trace out every burrow of his unfair foes. 
The subjective throes of his own mind must not only turn aside, but 
even drive back, the objective forces of circumstances. He must have 
the greatest powers of discrimination in the studies which give him the 
principles of his art, and between the different phases of character, in the 
herd of his theoretical lords, — a discrimination which, from systems most 
uncouth, gleans something for the sustenance of his high purposes, and 
giFes a new value in the gleaning ; which, in its forays upon hoarded 
lesearch, pilfers mental strength, and loses no dignity in the pilfering. 
If there be any approach to metempsychosis, between the statesmen of 
different ages, it can only be between those of the Roman and the 
Modem republics. In many of his acts, the statesman of to-day must 
teke his stand far above his people. There must be braided into him, so 
nuch of his art, that he seems the incarnate nation, — ten thousand coii- 
ptdtutfCIR^ egotisms bound in one strong ^ / am the Stated He is to be 
an High Priest of the mingled good of radical and conservative theories 
—no mad royster in the former, no gloomy light in the latter. It is 
rarely worth his while, to tilt with huge errors, which have plainly not 
lived their hour, nor to whimper over the every day fix>thing of plebeian 
uneasiness. When adversity grates against his works, he, more than any 
other, must be his own man. The prettiest theses avail nothing then ; — 
rodi times are fatal to precisians — ^blind followers of rules. From the 
itatesman's own soul, must be thrust brawny arms to aid him ; from his 
own mind must he have his keen second-sight. Formulas the most 
special then become generalities, and leave him for support, his own dear 
thoughts and stoutly knit purposes. 


Altmorabtlta SalenBta. 


At a presentfttum dinner during President Stiles' ftdministratioo, as a gentleman 
passed to that worthy a glass of punch, it accidentally slipped from their hands and 
fell to the floor. The President raising his right hand and assnming an attitude of 
the atmost dignity, repeated 'with all possible gravity the Latin quotation, **Sietran' 
tU gloria mundi!* 


A graduate of some fifty years standing gives the following anecdote of Freu- 
dent Dwight A division of the class of 1802 were reading compositions befon 
the Firesident, in which was one of those persons whom Shakspeare deB<»niBstei 
men of '* infinite jest** This man on this day produced a poem in which he colo- 
gixed those of his classmates whom he liked, and satirized those he disliked. 
Among the latter was one by the name of William Maxwell, a person of great self- 
conceit, very bombastic in his manner, and moreover troubled with an impedimeot 
in his speech. The poet had from the commencement of his poem been growiqg 
more and more severe, to the evident discomfort of the President, who thought tbit 
a production of so personal a nature was hardly fitted for the division room. At 
last, the writer alluding to some debate in which Maxwell had beeo engaged, spoke 
of him in these lines : 

" Then rose Will Maxwell, stammered, stuttered. 
And thought hell trembled every word he uttered." 

" Stop 1 stop!" said the President, " I fear you will do more harm than good kf 
piooeeding." The poet sat down of course, but the students, not willing to bs de- 
prived of so rich a treat, requested the division to remain after the President kid 
gone out, for the purpose of hearing the poem through. A few hours aftenrurd 
the poet received a message from the President desiring an interview with him it 
his room. The poet, supposing that a reprimand was in store for him, wore a wx- 
rowful countenance, as he went up to comply with this request. He wm surprised 
however, to find the President unusually bland and polite. After the usual salttte- 
tions the President remarked that he should like to borrow that poem <^ hit, 


Pimxjo Debate. 

As to this we can only repeat what was said of it in our last issue, that it 're- 
mains in tUUu quo,** and for aught we can see, is likely ta 

On Wednesday evening, an Oration was delivered in the Brothers' Society, bf 
Henst E. Robinson, of the Junior class. Subject^PoETRT and Paintino oovfak' 



■ - - - - r . 


dnesday evening, December 17th, the following gentlemen were chosen of- 
bhe three societies for the coming term. 


0. Oilman, Albert Bigelow, Wm. L. Rowland. 

Vice Preaidenta. 
B 0. Salter, Charles E. Yanderburg, Franklin Gmbe. 

W. Bishop, Salathiel H. Tobey, George A. Johnaon. 

Vice Secretariea, 
i 0. Flagg, Albert H. Tracy, David 0. Proctor. 

Phi Beta Eapfa. 

ebster having declined the invitation to deliver the oration before the Phi 
ppa Society, the duty devolves upon Mr. Seward, who was eboeeii 
3. Mr. Seward has accepted. Mr. Pierpont will deliver the po«n. 


r. Haven morning paper has the following : 

"New Yom, Dec l«tli. 

rotation of Students, from Yale College, called on Kossuth this morning, and 

I him with an address', to which he made a short I'eply. Other depntft- 

e in attendance — ^but owing to his feeble state of health, Kossuth decUoed 

3 them.'* 

this, two public meetings were held in the College Chapel, in which im- 
ates and members of the scientific departments participated. A short ac- 
the first was published in the N. H. Courier of Dec. 12th, and read from 
le second meeting as the report of the first. It either did not try, arfaiUd 
view of the unbounded enthusiasm displayed, cheers being so abundant 

1 speakers were actually almost prevented by them from proceeding. How- 
ak they did, and the meeting appointed a committee to draft an addrett 
sented to the Hungarian hero. At the second meeting held Wednesday 
I, Dec. 10th, the committee reported an address, which called forth a very 
Uscussion, enlivened at short intervals by tremendous, deafening applanee, 
» of the proa and sometimes of the cona. We have pretty full reports of 
hes, but cannot, for want of room, if for no other reason, insert them. The 
ras finally accepted, and the deputation charged with its presentation went, 
, heard and returned, and we do earnestly hope and trust that this demoil* 
>f Yale, together vfith what is doing elsewhere, will firee Hungary. 


112 HBW PUBucAnoNs. [Dec 

ISm |)ttblUati0ii0. 

" Reveries of a Bachelor. Bj Ik Maryel." 

Wx canoot omit to give a few words of welcome to those delightful '* Rewtitf 
of Ik Marvel, in their new and doubly attractive holiday form. This " book of the 
heart" has found its way to the hearts of young men and maidens, old men bdcI— 
children can*t appreciate them fully, though they can weep over the death of little 
PauL We melted before this magic book. If we had never known it before, 
this book would have told us we had a heart 

" Dbsam-Life : a Talk for thb Skasovb. By Le Mabyxl." 

The world is blessed with another book from the delicately beautiful pen of the 
author of *' The Reveries of a Bachelor.** We have read but few of its pages— ve 
are keeping them for vacation leiaure-hourt— but can judge easily that they ire 
glowing with th« same beauties of thought and imagery that chamifid ns iatbe 

We have a pleasurable pride, too, in calling attention to these bookii for its aoAor 
is a son of our common Alma Mater, and in the chapters " Cloister life," lod 
** College Romance,*' he paints pleasantly recognizable scenes of his and our CoDege 
ways and manners. 

The whde book, doubtless, is as interesting as the chapters " Bain in the Garret" 
the two above mentioned, and " A Broken Home,** — and with our whole heart we 
■ay, buy it, every one who has ever been a boy, or hopes to be a man — especially all 
in love and College. 

For sale at Pease*s. 

WoxAN IN HER Yarioub RELATIONS. By Krs. L. G. Abell. New York: Wo. 

Hoh-edge, 140 Fulton Si 

This work, very neatly enveloped and directed '* To the Editors of the Yale lit- 
erary Magazine,** comes to test our gallantry, doubtless. How can we £eul to notioe 
favorably, so dear a subject Although we wish Mrs. Abell had taken a little tiitf 
from the care of her 6a6»e<, her " boxes of ihreacU, imtt, tapet, boblnnM, weUin^^^ 
needU$, <bc., Ac,** and other household matters, to correct such ezpresaions is * 
person may be kind . . . without accustoming thenuelvett" ** want of ponctoality in 
some member or their carelessness,** Axu, <&c before itereotypif^ the book, still, inac- 
curacies of style can well be pardoned when such valuable directiona aboondi as 
to " discard punning,** (attention I razor makers of Yale !) ** a man of talent rarel/ 
condescends to be an habitual punster, a gentleman, never" — to avoid ** making 
noises in eating and drinking,** " helping yourself first at meals,** ** acratefaing ^ 
touching your head,** " looking at your handkerchief after blowing your Mse,"-^ 
directions to keep the hands, face, mouth, teeth, and nails dean, etc. Students 
who have not already secured copies to present to their mothers and ihe\r'*brig^ 
partieulart" can do so by calling at Pease*8. 

1851.] EDITOa's TABLK. 118 

(SMtor'0 STabU. 

Con ! that's right, frieods 1 draw up close to our table, not a round one, bat 
iqaare, with the corners rounded off to favor your approach. We've nothing very 
iDviting, perhaps, to offer you, but here are books, papers, (to wit, communications,) 
SQodry medicines, for we are sick, but alas ! no apples ! Those apples, where are 
thej ? Like those of that friend who discourses to us in our columns of the ]^eat* 
nraand duties of Oollege life, the editorial "apples," ignis fahtut like, Swiftly 
elnde our grasp. ** We five," have gathered once and again, and yet again, and 
eidi time our brows in particular have gathered — blackness, at the dire necessity of 
giving of our private pennies, to satisfy our editorial appetites. How think you are 
▼e to bear up against such a dreadful missive as thb, which has lighted on oar ta- 
ble, after coming all the way from Pennsylvania, not from lAont-Roie, we should 
ftbk, but from some Utterer Mont, than that ? The ** affair has itself as Allows :— - 
One of us five, writing in haste to £. Pluribus, happened to forget, not looking at 
oor subscription book, that E. P. had already subscribed and paid for the cor- 
lent volume of our magazine, and politely asked " if he wouldn't subscribe." Here 
700 have a key to the following terrific epistle. 

GsDC Yallet, 11th month, 11th day. 
To you, 

The guilty Editors of the Yale Literary Magazine. 

I am enraged->Tou have instigated my wrath, and 1 am determined to pour it 
oat, even to the last phial. Prepare yourselves then for your iniroit into '* that 
bourne from whence no traveler returns." Hear me for my cause, and be silent 
that you may hear. 

PaiAL No. 1. Republics are proverbially ungrateful Your ingratitude is of a 
deeper dye, and will be familiar as a household word through all coming time^ 
With viperine baseness, you hurl your envenomed shafts at the heart of a bene&c- 
tor, tad receive unmerited favors, as ungratefully as you would a kick. I repeat it, 
lepahlies are ungrateful, and you, who profess to control the '' RepMicof Letters^* 
ted hold the monopoly of its advantages, have fairly earned the name of ingrates, 
vhile your literary character is completely eclipsed. 

PsiAL No. 2. For the reputation of Alma Mater, I regret to say it, but it is too 
tnifl^ that the character of the Ed's of the Yale Lit Mag. is degenerating. I have 
basD abused, and for what t You know too well the story of my wrongs. A friend, 
I bave been treated with — ^what ? Kindness ? No — Justice ? No — Common decency f 
Ho— but base, heartless, apathetic neglect. I had rather be abused as to my char- 
acter, burned out as to my eyes, and cut off as to my head, than to receive the cold 
cot of ingratitude as to my disinterested kindness. 

Phial No. 8. And now, Messrs. Ed's, are you so hebetated in feeling, so arid of 
^boQght, so abandoned to every trace of human sympathy, as to persist in a oours« 
^ treachery, dishonesty and inhumanity ? Posteri negabiti$ I 
Pbul No. 4. Is this your fixed modus operandi t I pause for a reply. Have yoa 
VOL. XVII. 15 


no hearts ! or are they cast into the shade by the splendor of your intellects t The 
latter is impossible, the former you cannot deny. Do yon feast like gourmands oo 
the substance of innocent subscribers, and leave tbem to console themselves with 
sweet thoughts of your immaculate honesty ? ^ 

Phial No. 6. To each of you might I well say, in the langiiage of Seneca, 

" Quo, tipsy Senior, obvium morti ingeris I 
Quo, pergis amens f " — Hercules Furens, 

So base has been your conduct, so inconsistent with the sanctity of your Yecertble 
magasine, that I blush to mention the name of "^ Yale" in the same breath with the 
editorial corps. I am an injured man. Too long have I suffered, and now io the 
majestic language of Cicero, when rebuking a reprobate not unlike yourselves, lean 
triumphantly exclaim, *" Quousque tandem abuteris editores patientia meal 
quandiu etiam cunctatio ista vestra me eludet V* Frumentum coofiteretis t Ob- 
tuM as you are by nature, I can already see the crimson deepening on your cheeksr 
as you apprehend my meaning, and you curse the day that gave you birth. 8tiU 
are you unrelenting? And as in fond memory you linger over the time when the 
twin-dollars first chinked in your starveling purse, do you "grin a ghastly smile" and 
write above the unhi^py victim's name " collared" because perchance you an out 
of his clutches 9 

"Man's inhumanity to man," finds not a more seyere comment than this yonr con- 
duct towards an humble, inoffensive, modest man. I parted with the coin in sad- 
ness, your ten-eyed monster seized it with delight. "From the beginning to theeod, 
your course has been the same — stern, cruel, unscrupulous. In attempting to inveigle 
and defraud an unsuspecting alumnus^ your impious' course is arrested. Indignant 
justice frowns, and swears eternal vengeance. Still are you unrelenting f And as 
though you could revel in adding the Ossa of injury to the Pelian of insult, one of 
your degenerate fraternity, in reply to my epistle inquiring for the last issue of yov 
paper to which /am a subscriber, remarked, with a coolness that would chill an &* 
qulmauz, as follows : " Your Yale Lit I am sorry to confess, 1 forgot. I will attend 
to it to day. WoiUd you like to subscribe this gear ?"!!!!!! 

I should like to inquire on what system your^naneto/ affsurs are managed 9 Two 
dollars a jear for the magazine, and two dollars as fees /or sending it f Only e<* 
plain your platform, and I am satisfied, but such malfeasance is unpardonable. 
You may have good reasons for withholding your issue from your subscribers, W 
they should be informed of the fact. You may be ashamed to own its paternity, (V 
perhaps you like to practice upon an alumnus. If the/or»7ier is true, you may ^9- 
imburse those funds without any particular delay ; if the latter, you will find yoor* 
aelves provided with rooms /ree of rent ! Still, I will be satisfied with the receipt 
of the regular numbers, though I am convinced of your utter want of principle, a' 
a body, 

I flatter myself that like Job I can ** wait all the days of my app<unted tim« so- 
til my CHANGS comes," but I am not to be trifled with. You are guilty of a gtier* 
ous crime, and naught but the most ample amends, will shield you from public and 
private ignominy. Act, then, like men, and send me your magazine, else I wiUcaat 
my influence into the opposing scale, and crush you forever. With regard to tsj 

1851.] KDiTO r's t abtk. 116 

further subecriptioa ** thii year" from me, I would simply state that it will be for- 
warded " adffrasea* eaUndaa," You were once my friends. You are now my debt- 

ois, and I am. Yours, 

K Pluribus XJiiuic. 
Mt T. Z. M., N. EL, Ct, Nov. 11, 1861. 

P. S. If you pnbUsh this letter, I will prosecute you to the extent of the law. If 
yoa do not, you will be liable to an ** action" fcr obtaining money under false pre- 
tenses. E. P. U." 

We have seen three ffoad Vns, in the papers lately : first, under the market re- 
ports, which we always read with great interest, we found this tribute to the ob- 
stinacy of swine-nature, — '* JPork is firm," — a good instance, we think, of ** the ruling 
pauioa strong in death," Another was an original argument, which we recommend 
to Joniors who have chosen for disputation the Capital Pimishment question, " that 
the debt of nature ought never to be paid if it cannot be collected without an 
execution," The third, we notice because it is connected with education, a subject 
of luch interest to us all : — it is this WeUerism, " you've a pupU under the lath, ub 
tbe man said when looking into the pedagogue's eye." . . . That was a capital 
itory Pro£ Goodrich told us Seniors in a Lecture t'other day, about Home Tooke. 
We must tell it here. Tooke being on trial for treason, Lord Erskine had charge of 
luB defence. Tooke being determined to plead in his own defence, Erskine tried 
to dissuade him, and said, " You'll be hanged if you do ;" to which Home retorted, 
TU be hanged if I don*t T . . . Reader, did you ever see the ** Lift for the htLXj,*' 
inUisbed by G. P. Putnam, New York, in 1849 9 We have, and we advise you to. 
We think it pretty well worth " thumbing." If every reader of it is necessarily 
laqr, then we are, that's all ; bilt we are not lazy, ergo, it sometimes ''lifts" other 
than the lazy. The odd name of it does not convey any idea of the contents of the 
bo(^; they are the "jottings down" of a devourer of books, who, as he says on his 
titlif-page, has ** been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps." Tberv 
an ^lilological curiosities, origins of quaint customs, and short histories of remark- 
able men and things, and so much interesting information is mingled in with such 
rare bits of humor, that the book is valuable as well as entertaining. Here follow 
& few quotations from it, taken at random or as being short ones. 

** Sincere — tine cerd — applied to honey freed or cleansed from the wax.". 

*£ock9 — slang term for money — from rupees, the East India word, and so rupit, 
tiock, plural, rupes." 

** Helter^kelter, fancifully derived from the Latin, hilariter celeriter." 

*Q.— We get the name of this letter from the French queue, its shape bemg that 
of u O with a tail" 

" Topty-turoy, a corruption of top side t'other way" 

** Examination, from Latin examen, the beam of the balance." 

" Wig, from French peruque, then perwick, periwig, and finally wig, without a 
ttgle letter of the original word." 

" Scamp, from ex eampo, a deserter." 

** Hoax, contracted and corrupted from hocus, the first member of the ezpressioQ 
^^tmpocus, which is jugglers' Latin for Aoc est corpus, the beginning of the Rooiili 
form in the ceremony of Transubstantiation." 

116 editor's TABLE. [Dec 

Tliese are a fow of the things which fill the pages of this excellent book. GetH 
«nd find yourself well paid in looking over its half thousand of sooh and better. . . . 
What a blessing it is to be able to write, even when we cannot talk ! A eeTm 
attack of influenza has made us so n«^ar speechless, that our best sayings are "like 
counterfeit bills, uttered but not aloud (aUowed.)** But we can still talk to your eye, 
if not to your ear. . . . Pondering ezaminationt, espedally BUmviaUt we ba?e jost 
thought that the Biennial Chamber is the true division room, for there unlucky 
wights are most effectually divided, i. e., separated from one another. What ftKi 
you, Reader, to our remark? 


We deeply regret being compelled to say to the author of " The Memory i^ th 
J)emdf** as old ^^Kmck,"* did to a misguided young correspondent, " Seriously, 

You*re not a poet^ 

And you'd better knom it ; 

and this adyice we give in all friendliness." At any rate yon need considerable 
practice to become one. ' Coffin' and ' mocking,' ' parting' and * heart-strings' don't 
rhyme ' at all, at all *,' ' desire' has but two syllables, any way you can fix it Now 
such faults as these, together with various unpoetical thoughts and sundry untaite- 
ful and inartistic expressions, force us to say, a little or rather much of the ^^Uboi^ 
limm^ friend, before you come again. The subject is hallowed, and should bare 
only the most skillful expression. . . . The article on *' Taking out a Half 8tmdiijfl' 
we cannot insert ; its morals, or rather immorals, are too bad ; and we do hops O.K. 
has not told us in this the story of his own wrong, for we must be permitted to lay 
that the hero-Senior, whoever he is, is an inexcusable scamp. . . . ** FoihietM 
Fclliei* might have been written by a boarding school Miss, though such a irriter 
would have had too much delicacy to say *' when the East Indies disgorged iti 
bowels of tropical luxuries on them," L e., on Greece and Rome. We agree vid 
the writer's principles, in the main, but we do think they could have been fu OMI* 
ibrciUy and accurately expressed. . . . Those " Hudibrastic verses" entitled, " ^ 
^Smtor Bash" were " not dignified enough for the Magazine," and so &r from 
** amusing some of the Editors," they didn't elicit a smile even from one of tiieoL 
It was quite too much trouble to find their " apex." ... Of two poems, cootafaiN^ 
nearly four hundredr and fifty lines each, one, ** The Islet Grave,** we cannot insert in 
this number because we haven't room, the other, the ** Temple of Poetry,** becwN 
we haven't the desire to. One like it mij^t be manufactured on Uiis wise: let a 
man take a dose of Pope once a day for a week or so ; then a list of poets withoat 
arrangement, chronological or otherwise, Theocritus, Virgil, Spenoer, La*eomebod7> 
(we might say Lucifer, but believe he is not a poet,) Horace, Boileau, Dryden, Batlef» 
Johnson, Young, Pope, Churchill, Thomson, Cowper, Anacreon, Sappho, Pindar, 
Sophocles, Euripides, Corneille, Racine, Shakspeare, Homer, Milton ; half of whose 
works he never read and likely never saw ; some critiques, such as the wofld 
abounds with, on poets and poetry in general ; a set of high>souuding epithets ; tbe 
idMi very indistinct and therefore very sublime and magnificent of a most udIiD' 
aginable temple ; and to season the whole, the firm belief that he is himself a poe^ * 
and you have a man prepared to write a jingle of four hundred and thirty-four Uo^ 

xdttor's table. llT 

; to his own numbering, in sound suspiciously resembling Pope, in sense 
ig nothing under heaven, beginning, 

** In Fancy's airy realm, I care not where f 
iifferent, on the whole, rather wanting in unity of place I 

** Whether in earth or sea or liquid air." 

tea liquid too ! and what air isn't liquid ? 

" Or on the surface of the silver moon 
Stands a bright dome to every poet known, 
For thither oft on pinions light he soars." 

t's pinions 1 Made of goose quills, doubtless I Poor Pegasus will have to 
8 in the stable, — poets after this will fly for themselves 1 

" Circles the coast, and all the fields explores." 
coast 9 what fields I why of the temple^ of course 1 

*< And yet the onward wight, who asks the way." 

1 wight;" we should need some good authority for calling this poetry I 

" Scarce fails to find his eager feet astray ; 
For they whom Sportive Fancy loves, alone 
Have found her mansion, and her empire known." 

incy has given our temple-builder the mitten. But we cannot pursue again, 
ve done, the labyrinUi of this wonderful temple. Reading the piece is 
without printing it. The same writer tries his hand at prose ; and gives us 
lages on the affirmative of the very novel, interesting, and exciting question, 
\e religion of Mohammed,'* &c We have forced ourselves through it, an4 
you the trouble of doing so, Reader, we have kept it from the printer'^ 
. . Here is Vkjeu cT esprit on the model of " AudaciaJ* an effervescence tm 
>nally know of a chemical lecture on the same subject It is from the same 
ich penned the "Recipe for a Chemical Lecture," in this No, We wel- 
} writer and all kindred spirits always to our pages. 


(a parodt on a paboot.) 

Ammonia, this is the title 

Of that good smell we love the best ; 
It is the means of cure most vital, 
Wben wretched headaches us molest. 
In tiresome church or rattling car, 
ril snuff thy fumes, Ammonia. 
Ammo— mo-— mo— m<Miia, 
Ammonia t 


Go I unto a Cbemic Lecture, 

Where sulphuretted hydrogen, 
Or other gases vile infect your 
Kose and throat and abdomen. 
While other people coughing art» 
I calmly snuff Ammonia, dec. 

Whene'er my loved one feels peculiar. 

Grows dizzy and leans back her head, 
Into my arms I take my Julia, 
And hold unto her nostrils red, 
A bottle of Ammonia, 
Reviving, strong, Ammonia, &c 

If at a party I am dancing, 

My partner perfumed strong with " Rose," 
Her charms essence-ially entrancing 
My senses all, except my nose, 
I stagger to a comer far, 
And, fainting, snuff Ammonia, ^ 

And so through life Pll carry in my pocket 

A bottle of Ammonia ; 
It there shall rest beside my Julia's locket, 
And both shall cheer me " when afar." 
If faint, m cry — Ammonia I 
Revived, Til sing — AmmonUI 
Ammo — mo— mo — nia ! 
Ammonia ! 

We welcome to our pages the authors of '* Yale" and of the ** Pleasures and Duttaio^ 
College Life." In their pieces we see the right spirit manifested, and we raise li^ 
tie OUver's cry of ** More," for such good and appropriate things as the lines written 
in the laboratory, Ihe "Poser for Linguists," and " Ammonia." . . . We regret 
that its length and our want of room excludes the essay on *' Painting and PoetiJ. 
It has much merit and may appear in a future number. 

We learn with regret that some of our readers have been somewhat dissatisfied 
with the contents of preceding numbers ; on the ground particularly that the pieoee 
inserted have been used on other occasions, and heard by portions of the studenti. 
Now we think that the Lit. should be prized quite as much for containing {neoei 
which have been listened to with interest, of which the authors are known, and 
which will serve in after years as remembrancers of them, as for anything else. To 
us, the magazine is not so much an object of merely present interest, something to 
tickle the fancy for the passing moment, and then be thrown aside, as something to 
be recurred to in the future, when we are living over again these days and scenes. 
And as the editors cannot be expected to supply new matter enough themselves to 
fill the Magazine, they must select from the materials furnished them, what in their 
judgment is the best. If, then, pieces written for public occasions, orations, dtc dec., 
seem to be the most carefully prepared, and on the whole the best compositions, and 

1851.] editor's table. 11© 

the best indices of the ability of the students, we can have no choice but'to pub- 
lish them. Don't complain then, till you send ue for our pages things really more 
dflserriDg than those we publish, and we reject them. Another complaint has been 
one equally groundless ; viz : that the editors " cut up" pieces which are sent to 
them aDonymously and not thoee given them personally by the authors. We do no 
•Dch thing; we cut up pieces which deserve it, however they reach us. We have 
oothiogto do, €u editor $, with anything but the actual comparative merit of the pie- 
ees, and their adaptedneM to ihe purposes of the magazine. This we wish distinct* 
ly understood. This, and not favoritism or any like thing must be and is, the prin- 
ciple on which we discharge our editorial duties. 

ExoHANQBs and non-exchanges. " The Pacific' greets us from San Francisco. It 
i« a weekly paper — motto; "First pure^ then peaceable — withovi partiality , andwith- 
«rf hypocrisy." " Rev. J. W. Douglass, Proprietor." May its influence be widely 
felt for good in that far distant region ! The " Law Reporter" being rather out of 
our line, we can only say we take it for granted it is all right: at any rate it's right 
on hand. We were indebted some time since to the K Y. Daily Times, and the 
Tale Banner for reliable information as to the number and names of students at 
Yale. A publication entitled " Catalogue of the Officers and students of Yale Col- 
lege," has quite lately appeared. On comparing this with the former we find it in 
the main correct We believe this is published at intervals, by the college, and by 
the way would suggest that we editors deserve as " perquisites" copies of Phi Beta 
Kappa Orations and Poems, and all other college publications ; and in this connec- 
tion respectfully and modestly suggest to the faculty, whether it wouldn't be for 
theb advantage in increasing the sale oi catalogues^ if they should secure a puif from 
^ by just sending us a pretty ptump quota gratis ! And now. Old Kniok ! we come 
to your case : you're said to be usually " around," but some how you don't visit our 
table as you used to. Why is this ? The old governor on our cover and yourself 
"We should think very well fitted to exchange visits once a month, especially since 
you've got one of our old corps to stay your aged steps. Suppose we try it and see ! 

Our editorial compliments on behalf of our favored colleague are respectfully ex- 
tended to certain young ladies — ''fine girW — of the Mount Holyoke Female Semi- 
livy. The receipt of a catalogue is acknowledged, and thanks returned for its de- 
^ptive illumincUions. The request of the young ladies shall be granted. The 
•llnsion to " Cicero" is not comprehended, — please explain. Our ** communications" 
^>>llbe addressed as directed, but is it not a little exacting to require "the name, 
'g^ and general characteristics" of the writer ? 

behave been unexpectedly delayed in getting out this Number ; it should have 
appeared a day sooner, — ^but " circumstances alters cases," as the old lady said, and 

•9 mote it be,** We ask your, pardon. Readers, and by way of conciliation, wish 
you all a joyful vacation, a Mbrbt Chbibtmas, and a Happt New Yeae ! 


^toarlr of t|)e Sale Ctttrarg |)amtnin. 

The present Board of Editors having appointed Rev. Chester S. 
Lyman, of the Class of 1837, one of the Editors of the first volume <€ 
this Magazine, and IIknuy B. IIaiiuison, pjsq., of the Class of 1846, cos 
of the liklitors of tlie eleventh volume, a Committee to act in connectka 
"with one of thoir own number, in awarding the Prize oflered in June 
last ; — subsequently received tlie following 

To THE Editors of the Yale Literary Magazine : — 

The committee appointed to award the Premium placed at the dispo- 
sal of the editors of the Yale Literarj' Magazine, would simply say, thai' 
having examined the ten compositions submitted to them, they have no 
hesitation in regarding as most worthy of the prize, the piece signed 
ZwiNOLE, and entitled 

" The Greater Distinctions in Statesmanship.^ 

At the same time they deem it but just to say, that, in their opinion, d 
large portion of the remaining articles possess unusual merit. 

It may also not be improper to remark, thatin making their deciBion, tbii 

committee were governed only by a regard to Literary excellence, with* 

out reference to the subject ; although, knowing the wish of the condue^ 

ors of the Magazine to encourage the selection of topics of a leas gravt 

or ambitious cast^ the' committee would have been pleased to decide in hi 

vor of a composition on a subject more appropriate to the general scope i 

of the magazine, had a duo regard to the other qualities of good writiDg 

left them at liberty to do so. 

Chester S. Ltuav, 

Henry B. Harbuov, 
Daniel C. Gilmav. 

New Haven, December 20, 1851. 

The envelope inscribed " Zwingle," was then broken at a meeting 
of the Editors, and 

Andrew D. White, of Syracuse, N. Y. 

a member of the Junior Class, was found to be the succeesful oompetiUx^ 
and to him the Premium is accordingly awarded. 




Vou XVII. 

FEBRUARY, 1852. 

No. IV. 

Tbs thoughts which are suggested to the mind, as we hear the epithet 
*' Old Antiquarian," are somewhat peculiar and interesting. Fancy im- 
mediately pictures to us an aged man, bent by years, tliough still pos- 
MBsed of iJiat strength which accompanies busy old age, his countenance 
■teni and severe like one whose days have been passed in toilsome study 
and with an eye shrewd and piercing. Garments of dingy brown, made 
'm a style long past, a wig well powdered and arranged with scrupulous 

' "'pieoosioii upon his head, and a slouched hat are the ideas we form of his 
bem. There is a mysticism thrown around his life, a retirement in his 

}i mmner, and an ignorance of his pursuits which cause the world to think 
Iq^ily cf him, and to condemn his labors. The Antiquary has been con- 
adered a person who, though having an existence in this present time, 
hm his life and conversation in some distant period of the Past ; as one 

[ who deapiseB the Present since it is an innovator and destroys the olden 
edstomfl he values so highly. We have been wont to imagine him as one 
teddng useless curiosities, which he prizes according to their age, as 
■eaiehiog for words which are stricken in years, and which long since ful- 
fflled their office, and are now without a meaning. We have imagined 
■lum as one who belonged to a past age, and whose business was to col- 
lect all that oould be saved from the ruins of that age ; as a man neces- 
suily without foresight or prudence, since his thoughts run backward 
irnHier than forward. And how came we by such ideas ? We have seen 
Ae Antiquary's outward life, have marked his diligence, and wondered at 
Ui employment, and from these we have formed our opinion of him. 



We have been so amused at the descriptioii of Jonathan Oldbuck's Mll^ 
turn sanetoruniy and the humorous enumeration of the trumpery it con- 
tained, we have not stopped to inquire whether any advantages have re- 
sulted from such an unintelligible medley, but have supposed as a matter 
of course, that the collection was as useless as the confusion was com- 
plete, and satisfied with the conclusion, without further thought, we hare 
considered that the whole purpose of the Antiquary might be summed 
up by saying, in the words of Bums, 

** He had a fonth o' auldDick-nackets, 
Rusty aim caps and jingling jackets, 
Wad hand the Lothians three in tacketa, 

A towmoatguid; 
An parritch-pats, and auld aaat backets, 

Before the flood.** 

But are we right in this conclusion 9 Is the office of the Antiquary the 
mere gathering together of odd scraps which have outlasted the desol*- 
tions of time, and in searching out ancient rites and customs! No. 
The Antiquary has a higher office than this. His labors are neither un- 
natural nor useless, for they appeal to the native instincts of man, and re- 
sult in his increased elevation, wisdom and power. And though his pd- 
culiarities are striking, and his manner of life odd, yet we must commend 
his motive and zeal, and thank him for the valuable results of his 1mti^ 
ing labors. 

I have said that the Antiquary acted in obedience to natural impnlse* 
There is in the mind of man a principle of inquisitiveness, as well as of 
activity, and it quite as often exerts itself in retracing the past, asinftth* 
oming the future. But this is not alL There is an involuntaiy attacb* 
ment for things which long since had an existence and have passed swaj* 
We view with awe the monument which pierces the sky, and thou^ ^® 
know little of the hands that formed it, we reverence it for its remote ao" 
tiquity and its mystery. We regard with superstitious veneration the 
ages of our forefathers, and we respect and honor the prec^ts they v^' 
culcate with an obedience akin to that which the youth offers to the 
gray hairs of age. We seldom view but with pleasure — a melandioly 
pleasure it may be — the venerable memorials of former times. Anditi^ 
the encouragement which has been induced by this attachment to ai^ 
tiquity, that has cheered the Antiquarian in his pursuits, and spurredhis^ 
on to unwearied diligence. 

The Antiquary administers to our enjoyment He delights and ple>^ 
es us. Looking back through the distance of centuries, our vision ob- 
Acured by a dimness which history alone can diqpel, we gasBe with pi' 

1852.] THX ANTIQUABr. 12$ 

nnble emotions upon the splendor and magnificence of feudal chivaliy,-^ 
we Mnl to the incidents of manly knighthood, and the generous hospi- 
tiKij and gorgeous munificence of former days with a romantic pleasure, 
and though we do not wish those days back again, with the darkness and 
seifiiom which accompanied them, yet the bright scenes of their splendor 
and festivity cannot fail to charm us. The imagination is excited to its 
itmoet extent by the fearful solemnities of gothic superstition, and the 
magic and incantations we behold in the legends of the North, as they 
are revealed to us not by history, but by the search of the Antiquary. 
We study the history of ancient days, and derive not only profit and use- 
blinformation, but also pleasure. From what we know of the past, we 
can judge that greater knowledge would give increased satisfaction. If 
ve derive pleasure from knowing the history of Agamemnon, why not in 
howiog that of the mighty kings who reigned before him ? Are we 
aalttfied in gazing upon the ruins of Herculaneimi ? No ; we would ask 
whose bones are there entombed, and whose titles have sounded in those 
palaces. We would know more accurately of the proud Incas who once 
held sway in Peru, and of the great and mighty Montezumas, who ruled 
in Mexico ages before the days of Cortes. But how can we gain these 
things ? How enjoy the pleasure such knowledge would afford ? His- 
tory is silent, tradition long since ceased its office. They must' remain 
unknown forever, unless the Antiquary in his restless search penetrates 
the thick veil of ages, and brings to light the buried memorials of the Past. 
Antiquarian research is useful. Great and important are the advanta- 
ges which have resulted to history and science, by the critical examina- 
tions of ancient remains. New ideas — new to us, though, perhaps, well 
known to our processors, have been obtained ; doubtful points have 
heen illustrated or confirmed ; truth released from the jealousy of the 
times or the partiality of historians, has been made apparent And is 
there nothing in the past worthy our attention and study ? The men 
of great minds who by their intellectual greatness illumined the dark 
ages of ancient superstition and ignorance, not only demand our grati- 
tude for the past, but we are compelled to look to them, in the present, 
tt the great masters of science and art, to whom we must go as our 
^ and most perfect models. Those ancient historians, philosophers, 
<^ntors and poets have instructed us for centuries, and we can ill do with- 
out them even now. The man who would deride their usefulness or de- 
Predate the benefits they have conferred upon the race, is either ignorant 
^ their virtues or over-boastful of his own. I am not willing to grant 
t^t no good can result from a study of ancient manners, nor can I as- 
*^ that we have not ahready gained from the ancients information and 


customs most valuable to us, for we know full well that in architecton, 
law, logic, poetry and eloquence, we are but their imitators, and ourpres- 
ent excellence should convince us that we have chosen subjects cspsbk 
of successful imitation. 

Antiquarian labors are necessary. History is cold, severe and ftstid- 
ious. It omits all the minor and trifling actions of life, which work tbe 
real character both of individuals and nations, and which have a great^ 
though secret influence upon events. The Antiquarian remedies the de- 
fects of history, seizes upon subjects neglected by or unknown to thehis- 
torian, and gives them their proper position and importance. Traditaon 
is faithful only for a time, but without history finally makes a record, 
we loose not only the coloring and expression, but also the facts them- 
selves which traditionary story strives in vain to perpetuate. It devolves 
upon the Antiquary to collect these remnants and give them to the histo- 
rian and philosopher. 

I have said that antiquarian research affords both pleasure and benefit 
These results, which are a necessary consequence of a study of the past, 
may be infinitely increased. By making our investigations local the 
pleasure is immeasurably heightened. Gazing upon the monuments left 
by our fathers, though we may not fully appreciate the feelings of those 
who reared them, we cherish an instinctive pride. Even the rude mate- 
rials wrought from the flinty stone by the Indian for convenience or de- 
fense, invest the soil where they are found with an additional interest 
The relics of our homes and families have peculiar charms. It maj be 
a sword used by an ancestor in a revolutionary struggle ; it may be a sil- 
ver shoe buckle, which has been handed down for generations from ft* 
ther to SOB. However small or trivial in themselves they are beyond 
price, if their possessors have but the common instincts of our jiature. 
^Cultivating this love for the relics of the past, we are also cultivating A 
greater spirit of loyalty, a greater love for the spot with which they are 
connected, and a greater affection for our homes. The Catholics have 
wiseiy and shrewdly calculated upon this feeling, and the influence of 
their hundreds of sacred relics, so intimately associated with the memoiy 
of Christ and tiie Apostles, whether genuine or pretended, is immense 
upon the popular mind. 

Let tts look about us and notice the extent of this feeling. We may 
go through our College lAhrarj and as we look at the shelves upon 
shelves of accumulated lore, we wonder at the industry and product (f 
die hufnao mind, but as we stand before the remnant of those old, origi' 
nal volumes which constituted the foundation of our college, a feeling of 
xaverenoeaad veneratioa takes possession of us ; thej are different from 

862.] THE ANTIQ0ART, , f25 

■ I I — — ^— i— —1^— I II . IM«l««ill«lli 

he other yolumes which surroand them, yes, and they should be more 
ralued by the college than the thousands of books which have been col- 
lected there, for the costlier volumes of a later day can be restored, but 
those which were dedicated by pious men to the establishment of our 
college could never be replaced. That homely chair which has outlived 
not so much the destruction of time, as the vandalism of man, has an in- 
terest that costly furniture can never possess. And as we look upon it and 
think of its history, do we not consider it something more than so much 
wood ? There is something in these college relics, few as they are, which 
carries our minds back to the scenes of the past, which heightens our pleas- 
ure in our present walks, and which kindles in our hearts a warmth and en- 
thusiastic attachment toward our Alma Mater, which will cling to us 
through life. * 

And as we loo^ around and consider the changes of a hundred and 
fifly years, the changes in customs, peculiarities and discipline, the chan- 
ges oi men and things in our college world, may we not ask where are 
the relics which should trace their history, which should point out to the 
eye the differences in manners and customs, and substantiate or refute the 
Biany traditionary accounts, so vague and unintelligible, which come to 
us? Shame, we would say, upon the Vandal spirit which has left un- 
noticed, or yet worse, assisted in the destruction of mementoes which 
would now be invaluable. Some of the older nations of the globe can 
trace their history and the character of different periods by the collec- 
tions of coins which they have gathered, but at a place like this, where 
lelics of olden college days would be so highly appreciated, where can be 
found a receptacle even for a collection of any kind ? 

The same disregard for the past is manifest in the world around us 
By the exercise of a proper antiquarian spirit, by that appreciation of 
the past which is due to it, how interesting might almost every spot in our 
hmd become. How many of our villages can show the original docu- 
ment of parchment signed by the white men and the rude cross whicb 
Mrred for the "mark" of the red man ? How many have yet in faithful 
preservation the records of their early existence ? Few we think, and 
M we behold the spirit of neglect which the present manifests to the 
past we may well wish those antiquarians who have so amused us with 
Aeir oddities a hundred fold more numerous than they are. We 
tte a people of intelligence and learning, and yet the first book ever 
printed in our country — John Elliott's Bible in the Indian tongue — only 
ensts in name, while the language is now unknown. Would not a copy 
of that old Bible be a priceless possession 9 useless though it be in a 
pviotieal sense, and though gazing upon it we might not be able to de- 


cipher a single charaoter, would it not tell a thrilling tale of die n 
fervor and nuMoaarj earnestness of that ^Indian Apostle T 

We would eay then in conclusion, that every Antiquarian eni 
should be nourished and cultivated, for the cause is a worthy one. 
though we cannot but deprecate the immediate past for its neglig 
tracing out aad handing down the customs of the more remote p 
the present promises valuable service. Instead of antiquaries w 
Antiquarian Societies, composed of the intelligence and liberality 
land and patronized by governments themselves. 

And m we see these associations taking possession of the fie 
occupied by the individual antiquary, we would ofifer an acknoi 
ment of our appreciation of his services, and our thanks for the p 
and bcDefits he has afforded. He had his peculiariti& and defectf 
it were neeessary to offer an apology, we might plead the circum 
which surrounded him and the obstacles against which he con 
K his leaning was partial and his sentiments bigoted, it was a 
quence inseparable from so ardent an attachment to any single i 
K he was jealous of his own opinions, let us consider that his w 
forced threagh a wilderness without landmarks or guides, and the 
of hisaeateh as hidden as the sources of the Nile. Yet he accom 
much, aad the study of antiquities has now become a handmaid 
tory, Poetry and Science. w. ^ 


^ \)o\tt o! Ifitam from ^U. 


A void of praise from all I the balmy spring, 

Which gently whispereth of hope and love, 
Seems on its softly sighing gale to bring 

A pure, mute offering for the tlirone above. 
Its buds and blossoms to the zephyr bending, 

Bird-voices thrilling through the wood paths dun, 
Have one rich anthem to high heaven ascending, 

In fervent adorations unto Him 1 


A voice of praise from all I the summer*8 glow. 
Its verdant bowers o'er-shading hill and glen, 

Its flowerets, from the daisy meekly low. 
To the proud rose which glads the home of men, 



The bleating flocks and lowing herds retreating 
From mid-day heat to some cool, tranquil stream 

Winding through mossy rocks, are all repeating 
A hynon in honor of the great Supreme I 


A yoice of praise from all ! when autumn's hour 

Of brief, bright glory holds its magic sway. 
The fading leaf, the rainbow tinted flower, 

Bow to their Ood, ere passing to decay. 
The maple, while sad nature doth enrobe her 

In gold and crimson, as a gorgeous pall. 
Shows forth His goodness ! oh, beloved October, 

Tis thy te deum seems the best of all 1 


A voice of praise from all I the winter cold 

With icy heart enclosed in snowy shroud, 
Of wisdom, might and power, as oft hath ^Id, 

As spring with all her milder charms endowed ! 
The bleak, wild tempest in stem fury rushing 

Through the dead forest branches white with rime, 
Speaks I as the silvery fount does, glittering, gushing. 

O'er the fresh turf of some sun-smiling dime. 


Oh I if a voice of prayer and praise is ever 

Rising from this fair world unto the skies, 
If seasons with their offerings still endeavor 

To find acceptance in Jehovah's eyes, 
Why should not man, with soul and hopes undying, 

Turn from the selfish path he long hath trod. 
And bid his thoughts, from earth-bom wishes flying, 

*' Look up from Nature unto Nature's Qod V* 

|)o0er for £\ti%n\BtB. 

i Latin sentence in the December number, wbicb for the puzzle- 
of sub-seniors was left untranslated, is rendered as follows : 


128 F0BK8T LBAYKS. [Feb. 

SoxtBt £tat)t0. 

** I can ptM days 
Stretched m the shade of those old cedar-trees. 
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall, — 
The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs, 
Each tree a natural harp, — each different leaf, 
A different robe, Uend in one vast thanksgiving." 

Half my boyish days were passed in the forests of New England, and 
why should I not love them ? There is a period within my memory 
when I feared the gloomy recesses of the wood, and looked with simple 
wonder at the great oaken arms they stretched above me. 

But then my courage grew with my years, and I knew no pleasure 
like the wild freedom of the woods — ^no scenes more cheerful and attrac- 
tive than their moist secluded and shady spots ; and until I was called by 
the stem demands of my future welfare to forsake the old and hallowed 
haunts of boyhood and immure myself in Academic walls, I felt no 
abatement in my taste for sylvan scenery. Time, it is true, has now dis- 
sipated some of the poetry of early fancy, and has dried up some of 
those founts of feeling — that flood of deep, irrepressible, unwritten and 
imspoken emotion — yet I still love no scenery in Nature "better, and de- 
rive from none so many thoughts which speak in varied and typical lan- 
guage of the past, of the present, and of the future. 

I often wander through the woods in the Spring; for I love toliear 
the warbling of the birds, and see the buds swelling into life, and feel 
the warm winds wooing back the summer, while the gurgling broob 
lend their gentle voices to swell the mellow harmony of J^ature ; and I 
feel that the old, trite comparison of youth and Spring is %>t so vulgar 
and unmeaning as use has made it ; for Spring brings back to mind the 
days and thoughts and feelings of boyhood, and peoples memory with 
seeming dreams — which are not dreams, but strange realities — a recol- 
lection of the past, when Spring came, and I used to range the wood^ 
clothed in their new verdure, and feel a fervid flood of gladness and deep 
joy and love of Nature, which did not resolve itself into forms of thought, 
but came and went like a tide of living emotion. 

Spring has not the burning heat of Summer, nor the cold winds of 
Winter. Youth is not wearied with the cares and toils of middle Hfej 
chilled by the foiling energies and sorrow of declining years, or bleak 
with the lonely desolation of age. The forest buds burst into fresh and 
beautiful verdor^ nor is there anything to rexnind tis that the fiititf^ 


1852.] FOREST LEAVES. 129 

must be desolate again, save the dry leaves beneath our feet, and they 
ire hidden by the gay foliage of Spring, The hopes and aspirations of 
youth expand before us into a reality, and nothing points our thoughts 
to toil and sorrow and the tomb, save here and there some aged man — 
a fragment from the wreck of time which we pass unheeded and forget. 
It is well for human happiness that we so little heed the future, and are 
not soon forgetful of the past Days of my youth ! — green forest leaves 
growing on the trees of time, waving beautifully in the golden light of 
Spring, fade not in my memory ! Ah, Memory ! thou art a fruitful 
source of pleasure ! How often wafted by thy winds the receding tide 
of youth returns to lave our weariness I And thou Spring ! great type 
of youth, with all thy pleasant scenes though ever elsewhere beautiful, 
tliou hast no charms like those thou hangest on the staunch old monarchs 
of the wood. 

I love the Summer forests. Gratefully they spread their wide expanse 
of shade, and the tall trees open a welcome refuge from the sun. I feel 
t secret pleasure as I sit beneath them, and recall the scenes of Spring. I 
love the fuU-grown forest leaves, dancing in the Summer wind. I am 
wont to watch their shadows, and see how fantastically they sport with 
the warm sunshine. There is in this an emblem of the light and shade, 
the joys and sorrows of life. I love to have dreams steal upon my slum- 
bers, and to hear the indistinct low rustle of the leaves unceasingly flow 
in upon my ears. It is a noble sight to see the forest, in the summer's 
landscape, glistening in the morning and evening sun, and seeming like 
a vast pile of verdure towering against the sky, and vocal with the songs 
of many birds. It is a pleasure to range the woods, and drink in a part 
of Nature's beauty, and feel something of her greatness and splendor. 
Ikve the summer forests as emblems, and I love them for themselves. 
They are the types of manhood, and they also seem to throw their shade 
around, and shield us from the sun, as friends are wont to clothe them- 
selves in sympathy, and coming hang around a gentle soothing influence, 
which half subdues our sorrow. The leaves too are beautiful to me ; and 
the gray mossy trunks of the great wood-leviathans, clad with the clus- 
tering vines that climb their stalworth sides, and embrace them with such 
confidence, are emblems all may read. 

But Autumn clothes the forests in their most beautiful drapery. If we 
Were not accustomed to such scenery, how magnificent would seem the 
painted foliage of our forests ! How the rich colors blend harmoniously 
together ! How skillfully Nature paints the landscape, dipping her pen- 
cil in the frosts of winter, and imparting to each leaf her magic hues ! 

But this hectic flush upon the &ce of Nature is but the presage of her 
VOL. xvn. 17 

180 F0RB8T LSAVKB. [Feb. 

desolation. The leaves are decked in gorgeous colors for their tomb. 
There is something in this mockery of beauty, in the &lling foliage, in 
the sharp rustle of the leaves, in the pale sunbeams and cool air of Au- 
tumn, to tinge our thoughts with sadness. The blighted verdure has a 
similitude to the waning life of man, and there is something to call qp 
the remembrance of his earlier days, to remind him of the bursting buds 
of Spring and the vigor of Summer, and to point him forward to the 
tomb. The withered leaves of Autunm— dumb, yet eloquent relics of the 
past — tost by rude winds decaying and forgotten, are emblems of the 
end of man ! I love the beauty of the Autumn with all its sadness. I 
love the withered leaves, and their noisy rattle, as they crumble to my 
tread, is musical to me. I am glad to see them fade and fall, until the 
beauty of the forest is strewn upon the earth and dead ; for a sad voice 
seems to warn me, ** Earth is not thy home." 

Where is beauty when stem Winter reigns, and rides triumphant on 
the milky pinions of his storms I There is a wild beauty in desolation^ 
and I love the forests still, though stripped of all their verdure. I have 
wandered often in the gloom of wintery twilight through the storm-tossed 
woods, and have heard the tempest roar above me, and seen the trees, like 
giants in the gathering shades, throw up their brawny arms towards 
heaven, as if to supplicate the spirit of the storm. Then they have bowed 
before its power, and I have heard the crash of oaken limbs, as the tem- 
pest tore them from their ancient seats ; while clouds of withered leaves 
went by, like the demons of the tempest hurrying past Then I have 
held converse with the storm ; and Nature in her wildest mood hath 
spoken. And often dark and gloomy shadows have seemed to M 
around me, and to point me to the storms of age ; and a slow and sul- 
len fear has come upon me. But a coming Spring has cheered my 
thoughts, and through the gloomy shades of life have beamed the hopes 
of an eternal future. 

That was a beautiful conception of the ancients, which peopled every 
forest and each tree with fairies. What a charm the woods must have 
had to those who believed that little, invisible deities were sporting all 
around and above them, and were watching from their leafy thrones their 
every action, and listening to their every word I How gaily they spent 
their lives — ^those fairies — ^flitting among the boughs, and reeling their 
nightly dances together upon some broad leaf, and then hiding away by 
day ! I love to dream of their wild freaks, and the freedom and happi- 
ness of fairy life. I wish I; could convince myself of their being, for I 
should love to feel that earth had such guileless, happy creatures. But 
what matter if f&j% have perished from the thoi^ts of men I The 

1852.] FOREST LEAVES. 131 

woods have Mries even now. For when I see Master Squirrel peep down 
so cunningly behind the leaves through some fork in the limbs, looking 
80 shrewd and knowing, and dodging back so quickly. when discovered, 
to chatter to himself and me, in some safe retreat of his, I am willing 
enough to receive the little rogue into my list of fairies. And when I 
see the gentle birds, so kind and attentive to their mates and young, and 
warbling so cheerfully in the morning and evening air, speaking a clear, 
melodious tongue which I cannot interpret, but which Nature hears and un- 
derstands, building their nests like so many tiny thrones among the leaves, 
and floating about on their painted pinions, seeming so happy and so 
beautiful — ^I imagine that after all I have the secret of the ancient fairy- 
world, and that the self-same fairies dwell with us as lived of yore. They 
certainly are as harmless and as happy, and float along as gracefully and 
as beautifully as the fairies used to do. Oh ! a glorious little people 
were those fairies of old ; and a charming people are those who live 
with us, and make the forest echo with their joyous notes ! The birds 
are my fays, and I ask none better. I ask no richer music than their 
songs — ^no gayer wood-mates than they have been. 

I love the music of the woods, for it always sounds concordant with 
my feelings. The whispering of the trees in Summer are pleasant sounds ; 
for their soft harmonious members calm my weary thoughts, and throw 
a spell of rest around ; and the rustling noise of Autumn that has a note 
of sadness in its sound is pleasant, for it seems to speak with mournful 
voices of the Summer's joy and gladness, while a dread of winter vibrates 
on the air. But their voice in Winter half fills my mind with fear, for 
the howling of the storm among the naked trees is a solemn sound, and 
the deep sighing of the pines falls like a sad requiem at the grave of 
Nature. Such are the notes the forests lend to swell the unceasing an- 
them of the elements. 

I have said the woods brought back the memory of the past. They 
were my early haunts, and the scene of many a boyish exploit. Each 
bank and nook and rock and tree has tales to tell of other days. I 
walk out in the Spring sunshine. I sit down upon the great, mossy rock, 
where I have sat a thousand times before. The same familiar trees rear 
their massive trunks around me, the same pebbles are at my feet, the 
same shrubs and evergreens are there. The generation of children who 
have followed me, have left mounds and enclosures and stores of broken 
glaas under the sheltering rock, which look like those I left behind when 
I was called away from these old scenes. The descendants of the birds 
who used to sing in harmony with my pure childish thoughts, uncon- 
*Qoii8 y^sabUnie anthems to Nature, are wooing their mates above me^ 

182 F0RB8T LKATB8. [Feb. 

I read through the moes the nide initials which I chiseled long ago. 
The little fort that cost us days of playful toil to rear upon the summit of 
the rock, has fallen into ruin, and its mimic battlements lie scattered all 
around. The great oak which overhangs the rock, is covered well widi 
scars, for my initials are not alone. Oh ! how tenderly memory lingen 
round the playmates of our childhood ! How we recall little incidents in 
the early history of each, and trace in the character which they have 
earned a resemblance to that of their childhood. Some have carved thdr 
names near the earth, but two are cut above the rest I have not forgot- 
ten the day these were inscribed, when in boyish rivalry we challenged 
one another to place our names as high as each might dare ; nor how, 
when only one remained, I climbed until the topmost limbs of that huge, 
old tree bent beneath my weight, and left mine there ; nor how chagrined 
I felt when a daring fellow, the last, had climbed above me. ^noe then 
we have met, and in Academic honors his name is still above my own. 
How memory lingers also by some little graves, and drops a tear of 
kindness there I That old oak has a list of autographs, whidi are inval- 
uable memorials of the past What a record is written there 1 How it 
summons up legions of buried recollections ! How it recalls scenes and 
exploits, friendships and thoughts which were forgotten. I read those 
initials. At length my eye rests upon two traced together. One is mj 
own, the other sacred to my heart I had not forgotten her, but I did 
not remember that her name was there. How the little monuments we 
sometimes thoughtlessly leave behind us serve to call back the past 1 For 
I can now remember the day when I engraved the simple record. There 
was not a bird in the whole forest with a song more gladsome than the 
voice of sister Ella. How I hear its clear notes reverberate among the 
oaks, till the whole wood — rocks, trees and all seem to join in her 
merry laugh. There was not a being in the whole world more joyously 
gay and free and happy than Ella. I will not say her golden hair and 
expressive face, her bright eyes and form of light were beautiful. I will not 
say she was pure and gentle. But if it were not so, earth has no beauty, 
no purity, no gentleness. They say the beautiful and good are first to 
die. I believe it is true, for disease came upon sister Ella. All Winter 
long she faded, and when Spring came, they told me she must die. But 
when the flowers bloomed, and the soft Spring air came, it checked the 
ebbing tide, and Nature seemed to rally. Once we walked the old fa- 
miliar path, and sat us down to rest on this gray stone. The woods 
were vocal with the wild bird^s song, but her voice was not, as of old, 
above it, but soft and subdued — it sounded not like a funeral note, but as 
themuaieof thatgrMt ohoir to which she hastened. Then Bh^tpM 


1852.] ' FOREST LEAVES. 183 

and bade me carve our names together on the oak. ** It might be 
childish fancy," she said, " but it was pleasant standing on the verge 
of time to hope that those whom we must leave behind would not 
soon forget us." And she said that earth was fading from her 
view, that she soon must bid these scenes farewell forever, that she 
must leave her orphan brother here alone, and she would that part- 
ing she might leave behind her in these old haunts of ours some 
token, that perchance coming thither when time had obscured her mem- 
ory, (for she knew that I should not forget her,) I might renew a sweet 
communion with the past, and often think of her. I did her bidding 
silently and sadly. Then the poor, frail girl and her sad brother sat to- 
gether there, and thought and spoke of the past — its joys and sorrows — 
its scenes and hopes — their love and their loneliness — but of the future 
they were silent, for they durst not speak but by their sobs. To that old 
retreat we came no more. That night they hirried me from my couch ; 
and Ella's last efforts were to throw her arms around my neck, and whis- 
per " Farewell, my Brother !" A little church- yard bordering on that wood, 
received her dust Thenceforth the wood and the rock and the old oak 
were forsaken ; but for many a day, at evening a boyish figure stole 
through the village church-yard, and sat with bowed head beneath an 
old willow, which mingled its long and sweeping tresses with the tall 
grass and shrubs that grew above a new-made grave. 

I know not why, but I did forget that I had left upon that oak such a 
memorial ; and when at last time had softened down my grief for Ella, 
and I saw it still remaining there, all the dark tide of bitterness flowed 
back upon me, and I sat down and wept till the fountains of my tears 
were dried. A path that leads to the church-yard winds through this 
forest and often going thither I pause beneath the oak to look at that 
memorial, for the thoughts that steal upon me there are not like those 
that little mound and marble slab inspire. I always drop a tear and I 
think that place most sacred to her memory, and if her spirit ever smiles 
on earth and me, that it lingers long and gladly there. Farewell, sweet 
sister Ella! 

I love to see the woodman busy in his work of ruin, and the sturdy 
trees falling before his strokes ; not that I wish to see such desolation, but 
I am pleased to know that what is so beautiful also has so many uses. 
For we know that the staunch ships that beat the waves in pride, and 
travel far away upon the waters, are ribbed with oak ; and that noble 
structures, and the dwellings where we live come from the forests. And 
I am fond too, of sitting in some old, oaken, easy chair before the blazing 
hearth, that laughs your stores of anthradte to scorn, and is so gener- 


ous of its heat, and throws out such a dream-compelling influence ; and 
I recollect with pride that half the cheer and comfort of the fireside 
come from the forest I love the woods of New England, and next to 
them the old, primeval, western forests, through which generations of 
the Indians roamed before our time, and which have seen the white 
man's villages spring up around, and still are undespoiled. 

The old ancestral trees which my fathers saw in youth, in manhood, 
and in age, and which have looked down upon those whom I have loved 
and lost, seem too hallowed for the axe to touch. When I look on these 
and feel that however long I may live, they will remain and wave above 
my grave, there is no sadness in the thought that I must sleep beneath 
their shade by Ella's side. a. o. 

®t)t National (!Db0tn)ators. 

Of the many objects of interest in our Metropolis, few leave a more 
permanent impression than the National Observatory. Not only does 
the devotee of Science delight to find such an evidence of enlarged 
views in the Public Functionaries, as is indicated by its erection, but even 
the visitor unacquainted with the mysteries of the starry heavens, is in- 
terested in its beautiful instruments, and appreciates its usefulness. 

Its origin was humble, as is frequently the case with institutions that 
are afterwards of vast importance ; the first Observatory being a small 
frame building, fourteen by thirteen feet, erected upon Capitol Hill, under 
the direction of Lieut Gillis, an Astronomer of much promise, and who 
now has charge of the Astronomical expedition to Chili. Its object was 
to benefit the United States Exploring Expedition, then about starting 
upon its perilous voyage under Capt Wilkes, by affording corresponding 
culminations of the moon, thereby enabling them to find the difference 
of longitude. A Transit Instrument and a Siderial clock formed the 
nucleus of a collection, that now occupies no mean place among the 
Observatories of the world. Other instruments were added by degrees, 
and it soon became evident that a permanent Observatory was demanded 
by the country and tlie times, and a suggestion to this effect was accord- 
ingly made to the Secretary of the Navy. 

The Government, with praiseworthy liberality, immediately ordered 
the erection of a substantial and suitable structure. 

The present Observatory, beautifully situated upon an eminence about 
half a mile west from the President's House, resulted from that order. 


The building stands upon the left bank of the Potomac and is surround- 
ed by an area of seventeen acres, which is in a rapid state of improve- 
ment, and will form a lovely spot at no distant day. The view from the 
dome of the building is one of rare beauty ; the Potomac, issuing from 
the rocky hills above Georgetown, here spreads out into a stream nearly 
a mile in width, and with many a white sail resting upon its bosom, may 
be followed by the eye as the blue waters roll by parts the city, and mur- 
mur beneath the battlements of Fort Washington fourteen miles be- 
low. The hais of Maryland and Virginia arise on either side, some 
crowned with handsome residences, and others still occupied by forests. 
To the northwest may be seen the famed " Heights" of Georgetown, and 
the Catholic college, while to the east the city of " Magnificent dis- 
tances" spreads its " united villages." The President's House and the 
various Departments are to the left, and farther off the Capitol rears its 
beautiful symmetrical form, between which and the Observatory are the 
Smithsonian Institute and the Washington Monument, situated upon the 
"Mall" — a vacant space hereafter to be ornamented with trees for a drive 
and promenade. This situation both affords a fine field for Astronomical 
observations, and delights the eye of the visitor by the softened beauty 
of the scenery. 

The building is of brick, and consists of a main structure with wings 
on the east and west as well as an offset to the south. Attached is the 
residence of the Superintendent^ Lieut. Maury, a beautiful and convenient 
edifice, the whole being painted a cream color and presenting a hand- 
some appearance. 

The first floor of the main edifice is occupied by the various officers 
connected with the institution, one of whom is constantly prepared to 
show visitors through the apartments. We first enter the west wing in 
which is the west Transit, a beautiful seven feet, achromatic instrument of 
exquisite finish. A stranger can scarcely appreciate the delicate work- 
manship requisite in Astronomical apparatus, and the patience and labor 
demanded in using them. The observer lies upon his back on a conve- 
nient couch placed beneath the Transit, and with his eye applied to the 
eye-piece is enabled to mark the passage of the star across the delicate 
wires. There are in this wing also one or two Astronomical clocks, and 
the important Magnetic clock of Prof. Locke. The latter is destined to 
eflfect a very considerable improvement in the labors of an Observatory, 
and is deserving of separate mention. In the south addition is the 
Prime Vertical Transit, and in the east wing are the Meridian and Mural 
Circles, both beautiful and costly instruments. The Telescope is situated 
in the dome and is im instrument of large size, having a focal distance of 


fourteen feet, and an aperture of nine inches ; it is equatoriall j monDted, 
thereby keeping pace with the motions of the body under observatioii, 
and so delicately is the whole arranged, that the entire instrument, 
weighing near a ton, can be moved by the pressure of one finger. The 
dome revolves, and thus every portion of the heavens is brought under 
inspection, the observer being seated in an elevated chair of ingeniotu 

The view of the starry firmament afforded by this tube, is truly grand. 
The planets are brought so near as to reveal their tiny satellites, whfle 
the moon astonishes us with its rugged surface. But the most sublime 
spectacle is beheld when its wonderful glasses are directed to the fiunt 
nebula or clusters of stars ; these mere specks in the blue ether are ex- 
panded into countless suns, seeming to cover a space as large as our 
heavens, and each beaming as brightly as the Evening Star. The mind 
wanders on through vast systems of worlds to those still more remote^ 
and even here finds no termination ; until at last weary with its flight, 
and lost in the immensity of creation it returns gladly to our little earth. 

The Observatory, through the perseverance and ability. of lieutenant 
Maury, has at this early period accomplished results that enable it to 
compare favorably with institutions of a similar character in other parts of 
the Globe. On the announcement of the discovery of the planet Nep- 
tune or Le Yerrier in 1846, it was conjectured that it might have been 
previously noted by astronomers ; observers at Washington acoordinglj 
traced its path back in the heavens until they found that the identical planet 
had been observed by Lalande, and considered by him a fixed star; 
this happy thought and its successful' accomplishment gave them the 
benefit of observations fifty years old, and enabled them to compute its 
orbit and periodical time with considerable exactness. 

Another result was the discovery that Bilea's comet consisted of two 
parts, which was observed in Washington in 1846. 

Lieut. Maury is a man of much and varied learning, and of unceas- 
ing industry. When he entered upon the duties of his ofiice, the build- 
ing was scarcely completed, and everything was in the greatest confix 
sion ; his instruments were out of order, and required his personal exam- 
ination ; his assistants were to be instructed in their various departments; 
observations were to be made in rooms which the mason and painter had 
but recently vacated ; laborious and intricate calculations were to b« 
gone through with while the carpenters' hammer was ringing in the ad- 
joining apartment ; chronometers were to be rated, and the various iD' 
struments for observation at sea prepared, while the vessel was weighing 
anchor ; and in the midst of all stars were to be catalogued, and ayea^ 


ly report to be prepared. Yet the indomitable perseverance of the super- 
intendent accomplished all ; he exerted himself while others were enjoy- 
ing midnight slumbers ; he labored here, and encouraged there, planned, 
calculated and wrote, and as he remarks, " was often obliged to send 
the nominative oflf to the printer before he had taken the verb from the 

To his labors, chiefly, we owe the present flourishing condition of the 

One of the most useful of Lieut. Maury's labors at the Observatory, 
is the preparation of his " wind and current charts." He had long known 
of the existence of various currents in the Ocean and had formed the 
opinion that these might be made serviceable to the mariner. He first 
turned his attention to the great " Ocean river," or Gulf stream ; the re- 
sults of his investigation were made known in an interesting paper read 
before the American Association at its meeting in Washington a few 
years since, in which he accounted for the current upon the principle that 
had been previously offered to explain the phenomena of the Trade 
Winds ; a theory that has since been generally adopted. 

A vast number of " Logs" were collected from vessels in the govern- 
ment and merchant service, all the observations in which, upon currents 
and winds were recorded, especially noting those instances in which the 
voyage had been shorter than usual. Upon comparing these he discov- 
ered that in parts of the Ocean there were currents and winds nearly 
constant in their direction ; that these might be united, forming a con- 
nected series, and that by availing himself of their aid, the mariner 
might be spared many weary days of Ocean life. 

The charts have been completed at infinite labor, more than one thou- 
sand vessels having been engaged at times in* connection with the Obser- 
vatory ; the largest corps of observers ever under the direction of one 
man. They have been furnished to ships about starting on long voyages, 
on condition that the records should be forwarded to the Department. 
Prom a careful examination of these, confirmed by repeated trials, it has 
been satisfactorily ascertained that by pursuing the course marked out 
npon these charts, a vessel in the course of a long voyage may save sev- 
eral weeks of valuable time. 

Their vast usefulness is apparent, for not only is the saving of time an 
important consideration, but the perils of sea-life are partially removed, 
by avoiding those latitudes in which experience has shown the prevalence 
of head winds and squalls. 

The whaling interest has been especially promoted, since particular caro 

VOL XVII. ^ 17 

138 A SMILE. [Feb. 

was taken to ascertain the course and localities of the sea-monsteis, since 
they are known to be somewhat directed by the "ocean streams" 

Such is a brief sketch of an Institution that has sprung into useful- 
ness within a few short years. That it may long continue to reveal the 
beauty and immensity of the heavens, and by rendering us better ac- 
quainted with the " wide waste of Ocean," lessen the danger and toil of 
the mariner, must surely be the wish of each. For although its services 
may appear partial, as chiefly benefitting commerce and the cause of sci- 
ence, still every one must be raised so far above that narrowness of mind 
that looks not beyond sel^ as to feel a conscious pride in the enlighten- 
ment that can patronize, and the ability that can successfully conduct, an 
American National Observatory. h. c. h. 

!2l 0mUe. 

Amid the reckless race of life, 

Where all are pressing to the goal, 
And crowding in the eager strife 

Alike impatient of control, 
How sweet to turn aside awhile 

From scenes where toil is striving yet, 
And in one gentle, kindly smile, 

Life's cares and turmoils all forget 

What reck we of the storms without, 

Though gathering clouds obscure the sky. 
And barks are wildly tossed about. 

The rocks at hand, no beacon nigh I 
That gentle smile still lights our way, 

A hand within our own is prest, 
The tempests one soft word obey, 

And surging billows sink to rest 

Kot long such pleasant hours may last, 

And darker days for us may come, 
The sky with threatening clouds o'ercast. 

And angry billows capped with foam. 
Then while the heavens above are dear, 

And smooth is time's resistless tide, 
Li trusting love that knows no fear 

Adown the curreot let us glide. 

A graduate's beminiscbkoe. 189 

And when the trumpet summons calls 

To battle on life's tented field, 
Where glory crowns his name who falls, 

And shame eternal theirs who yield, 
That smile approving nerves the arm 

To strike for right a deadlier blow, 
And ever like a shield from harm 

Its magic spell can round us throw. 

A loving smile, — how small its cost I 

Its worth how great beyond compare! 
It soothes the weary, tempest-tost, 

And lightens half the load of care. 
They who have wandered far astray 

From guileless paths they trod in youth, 
And in temptation's devious way. 

Forsaken virtue, love and truth, 
Oft in reflection's calmer hour, 

When memories wake that long have slept. 
Have owned its talismanic power. 

And, o'er remembered pleasures, wept. 

A loving smile ; long may it shed 

Its light upon our course below. 
As on our weary path we tread, 

Through mingled scenes of joy and woe. 
And when we reach the journey's end 

And sink on earth's congenial breast. 
May Faith with radiant smile ascend 

And bear us to the promised rest 

J. K. L. 

D now, gentlemen, what say you ?" 
right, Tom, go ahead." 

itlemen, unanimity is the soul of action. Let us be assured that 
mimity pervades our counsels. All of you, therefore," and here 
aker raised his meerschaum, sucked intensely at its amber mouth- 
r a moment, and then discharged a mighty cloud of smoke from 
ler of his potato-trap — " who are unreservedly in favor of robbing 
icon's henroost, will signify the same by elevating the dexter di- 
Jp went six hands, four boots, and three pealing hurrahs ! 

140 A obaduate's RBMINI8CSK0K. [Feb. 

" To-morrow evening then — 

* Steal, foh ! a fico for the phrase, 
Convey, the wise it calL' " 

The above was the flag end of a dialogue held in a certain room of 

W College at some period in February, 184-. Of the speakers, a 

short description will sujffice. Tom E was a lank, hatchet-faced 

Varmounter, all " steel spring and chicken-hawk," with a Byronic shirt- 
collar, a hook nose, and a pair of dark eyes replete with unwritten vol- 
umes of drollery. Charley P , a five feet-three concentration of the 

most intense deviltry, better known among his allies as ^ Bosting," and 
sometimes as " Sherry Cobbler," — which latter soubriquet conveyed a 
pleasant allusion to his unrivaled skill in the composition of that seduc- 
tive potable. Last and least of the trio, beloved reader, comes your 
bumble servant. 

At the period of which I write an alarming dearth of poultry prevail- 
ed throughout W . Thanksgiving had made its usual inroads upon 

the feathered tribe, and still more extensive was the depletion resulting 
from the forays of sundry collegians whose perceptions of fim in the ab- 
stract were much clearer than those of meum and tuum in the concrete. 
Every farm-house within two miles of the college had suffered more or 
less from these fowl proceedings, and some were completely desolated. 
Many a worthy dame, after carefully feeding and counting her clucking 
dependants, had arisen from slumbers unbroken by the morning salata. 
tions of chanticleer to find her poultry-yard silent and untenanted. Loud 
but impotent her ululations — fierce but unavailing her abuse of " them 
nasty, thievin' students." Often she carried her griefs to the reverend 
Praeses, and then followed cross-examinations of suspected Sophs, and 
pryings into every hidden corner — ^none of which ever resulted in any- 
thing more tangible than the discovery of a stray pile of feathers, daws, 
&c:, in some location which could tell no tales. At last the townsmen 
gave up in despair, and contented themselves vnth exercising as close a 
watch as possible over their property. Their vigilance had resulted in 
the detection of a few incautious scamps whose prompt expulsion had 
somewhat lessened the ardor and appetites of their allies. And here 
commences the action of our modest drama. Long with silent yeanungs 
had we noticed Deacon H's poultry-yard — long had the sight of hia 
plump turkeys strengthened the promptings of our innate depravity— 
and already had we marked the imconscious gobblers for destruction. 

Ten o'clock on the above-mentioned " to-morrow evening," found us in 
Tom's room busily preparing to carry out our felonious designs. By no 
possibility could that chamber have been taken for any thing but the 


apartment of a Sophomore — and a " fast" one. On the floor lay the 
rowdiest of all possible " rowdies" cheek by jowl with a knotted shillala. 
The table was covered with a chaos of broken pipes, unreceipted bills, 
empty bottles from one of which rose a short candle, dissevered lemons, 
and dirty novels. In one corner where they had been ignominiously 
kicked, lay Homer, Euclid, and the never-suflBciently-to-be-by-unhappy- 
Sophs-execrated Cambridge Mathematics, awaiting the sure Nemesis 
of a fizzle i7i esse, and a flunk in posse, I was forcing myself into a 
pair of seedy bell -mouths some sizes too small. Tom stood before the 
glass, fitting on a red wig and whiskers to match. " Bosting" lay on the 
bed with his heels dangling over one of the posts, and a cigar between 
his teeth, busily cobbling a rent in the bag destined to receive our plun- 
der. All of which passed amid a continuous fire of jokes, songs, and joy- 
ous prognostications. 

At a few minutes past eleven we set out, and half an hour's sharp 
walking brought us to the scene of action. The Deacon kept a huge 
dog who was allowed free range and in whose ferocity his owner reposed 
ttnlimited confidence. But for this we were prepared. " Sherry" was per- 
sonally acquainted with the Deacon's " gals," and frequent flirtation with 
their divinityships had enabled him to establish great familiarity with Cerbe- 
rus. A few low whistles brought him out, and as opportunity favored, a 
tight muzzle was suddenly clapped on his jaws, and after a tremendons> 
scuffle, well secured. Cerberus was then thrust into a sack, half buried in: 
the snow, and left to moralize at his leisure upon human infidelity. This 
done we walked on for a short distance, lest some sleeper should have 
been awakened by the row. Returning we found all silent, and cau- 
tiously picked our way to the bam. Every door was padlocked, but a 
small saw soon effected an opening about two feet square, on the side 
fartherest from the house. Through this Tom and I forced ourselves, leav- 
ing Bosting on guard. The barn was excrutiatingly obnubilate, as Willis 
Gay lord Clarke would have said, but a few judicious flashes of a dark 
lantern soon made us thoroughly acquainted with the interior. On each 
ode of us were the stables. Over these hay was packed nearly to the 
roof. Two heavy beams about twenty feet apart crossed the barn longi- 
tudinally above .our heads. Across these lay a dozen or so of loose poles 
whereon our unconscious victims were quietly reposing. Altogether our 
iindert£^king seemed none the easiest ; it was indeed " pursuit of poultry 
under difficulties," as Tom whispered with an intense oath. 

We scrambled upon the hay, and found ourselves nearly on a level 
with the cross-poles. Those occupied by the fowls were detached a few 
feet from the rest. After some deliberation we pitched upon one which 

142 A graduate's reminisobkcb. ^ [Feb. 

was tenanted by half a dozen turkeys. A short contest for precedence 
then followed. Being the lighter weight of the two, I finally obtained 
the honor, and with some misgivings mounted the beam. The fowls 
gave symptoms of perturbation, but still remained silent. Bidding Tom 
cast his light upon the subject for a moment, I reconnoitred attentively. 
The objects of my attack were huddled together in the centre of the 
pole a few feet from where I stood. Cautiously bestriding the same, I 
hitched myself slowly along by a kind of indescribable insinuation. My 
frail support shook portentiously — the turkeys began to move — and now 
and then I felt uneasy, visions of sprains, dislocations, and subsequent 
detection, glancing through my brain as I looked at the gulf below. 
Urging way along however, I at last came within reach of my victims. 
Clinging tightly to the pole with both legs, I made a sudden dash at my 
nearest neighbors, catching one by the neck and another by the leg. 
Heavens and earth — what a hubbub followed! Such a screaming, 
screeching, and flapping as resounded about me, was enough to awaken 
the Seven Sleepers ! Silence was out of the question now, and nothing 
remained for it but dispatch. My prisoners were struggling desperately 
to escape. After a fierce battle, I succeeded in wringing their necb at 
the imminent peril of my own — pitching them to the floor — scrambling to 
the beam and sliding down the hay in less than a moment Tom had 
already flung the fowls from the breach and followed them. I tumbled 
out myself, and away we went — every one for himself, and the deuce 
take the hindmost ! It was high time — for lights were glancing from 
an upper chamber of the house ; a night-capped head protruded from 
the window, and a stentorian voice was bawling in concert with the 
screaming poultry, " Thieves ! thieves ! git up, George, git up quick !" 

After having gained a start of some three hundred yards, I looked round. 
Our pursuers were just under weigh — they were two in number — and 
more I could not tell in the gloom. Far in advance of me strode " Va^ 
mounts" his long shanks in full play, and receding every instant. But 
poor Httle Sherry, being fat, squab, and a trifle asthmatic, was manifest- 
ly at a heavy discount Scorning to complain, he was stniggUng reso- 
lutely on, but panting and wheezing like a consumptive locomotive, and 
already eight or ten rods in the rear. I took in these details without 
pausing in my own headlong scamper. Just as something very like 
tremor cordis came over me, Tom, who had suddenly retraced his stepS) 
encountered me. 

" I say, Ned, this will never do. Look at Bosting — we can^t con- 
veniently carry him, and if we don't, he wiU be nabbed in ten minutes. 
Best to stop and fight it out where we are ?" 

1852.] A graduate's reminiscence. 143 

"Can't we do better than that, Tom ?" 

"If they will fight," retorted Tom, with a coolness which never left 
him, " it's the best thing they could do for us. Wd are three to two — 
they'll be pretty well blown when they come up, and," clenching his shoul- 
der-of-mutton fist, " we're sure to lick them. Only keep cool — let me have 
first innings, and I'll not disgrace old Ladouc's science, depend upon it. 
But who's there ?" 

He paused and looked down a cross-road at our left hand. Following- 
his glance, I saw a sleigh with a single traveler coming slowly towards- 

"Hurrah ! I have it. Hold on to your turkey — ^follow me, and we 
are safe !" 

And away he went. I perceived his intention clearly enough, but it 
was no time to stand on ceremony. As the traveler saw our approach 
he reined up. But ere he suspected our design, Tom sprang into the- 
al^h and grappled with him. Completely astonished and half terri- 
fied, he was easily overpowered and pitched into the snow, just as Bos- 
tmg and myself came up. We scrambled in — ^Tom seized whip and 
reins — out flew the long lash — the horse sprang as if snake-bitten, and 
we darted round the corner, passing the enemy within ten yards. They 
assayed a rush — ^but it was too late, and we shot past them untouched- 
Only a mile and a half lay between us and the College, and I felt that 
barring' an unlucky " spill," we were safe. 

On we flew, fast as whip, voice, and frightened horse could carry us» 
Every instant some well remembered landmark rushed by us at the rate 
of twenty miles an hour. All doubt, all fear- vanished in the mad ex- 
citement of our whirlwind speed. As we thundered on a bridge, the 
horse made a sudden skip, but Tom's quick hand caught him up just 
b time to save a break. The runners gritted over the bare planks — we 
turned a sharp comer and the main street of the silent village lay fair in 
view. But here the road was broken and bad for about a hundred yards, 
with a steep descent of some ten feet on both sides. In the darkness 
not one of us could clearly distinguish the narrow track from the uniform 
expanse of snow around it. Under these circumstances, we could only 
trust in Providence and our horse. As the former was not over likely 
to regard us with special favor, and the latter was thoroughly frightened, 
our chances were of the slenderest. On we passed in safety, however, 
till, topping a slight aclivity, we descended towards the gully at its foot, a 
ticklish spot at the best of times. As we neared it, one of the reins 
parted, and Tom shouted "Jump! boys, jump for your lives!" We 
sprang up — ^but at that instant the sleigh sank with a crash into the gap, 

144 A graduate's reminiscbnck. [Feb 

turned over, and out we all flew like sky-rockets. Holding on mih i 
death grasp to my turkeys-one moment I described an aerial parabola, anc 
the next was ploughing, nose foremost, through a heavy drift. Emerg 
ing from the same, with my neck, hair, and bosom filled with fast melt 
ing snow, I looked round and saw my comrades alike buried, but unhur 
and fast struggling to their feet Luckily the College was now near at hand 
We made the best of our way thither, and after burpng our plunder ir 
a convenient drift, scattered to our separate dormitories. There we restec 
in an oblivion, reckless of the morning bell, and discreetly undisturbec 
by the venerable Professor of Dust and Ashes. 

At noon we assembled around our club-table, and multifarious were 
the "nods and becks, and wreathed smiles," wherewithal we puzzled 
the uninitiated — brazen the impudence, and sublime the ingenuity with 
which we presented our formal " exercises of invention" to the Tutor— 
and beatific our nocturnal repast on the ill gotten fowls. Of the lattei 
exercitation it boots not to particularize — suffice it to say, that about the 
second of the " sma' hours," Tom's glass fell . out of his hand, and him- 
self off his chair simultaneously. His disappearance induced me to turn 
towards Bosting, whom I perceived leaning very much forward in his 
chair, with his hat very much over his eyes, his hands very far ia his 
pockets, his chin very deeply plunged into a pyramid of turkey-boneft 
and his tout ensemble very far " over the bay," I considered our meet 
ing practically adjourned. So after having considerately dragged Ton 
out of the broken glass, and pillowed the stertorous Bosting upon hi 
upturned diaphram, I imbibed a final " smile" to my own health, left m; 
allies " alone in their glory," jand gamed my cot, with, as a passing glanc 
at the mirror told me, an eye somewhat moist, a cheek slightly rosy, aiw 
just a thought of unsteadiness in my gait. 

In conclusion, it is but fair tq remark, that both the Deacon and th- 
owner of the broken sleigh were soon amply, though anonymously rema 
nerated in full for all damages. And so ended my first assay in peti 
larceny. " 50." 

Luther's saddest experience. 145 

Luther — ^he was persecuted, 

Excommunicated, hooted, 

** Disappointed-egged" and booted. 

Yelled at by minutest boys, 
Woke up by metallic noise, 
Scratched and torn by fiendish cats, 
Highwayed by nocturnal rats. 

Oft upon his locks so hoary, 

"Water fell from upper story, 

Oft a turnip or potatoe 

Struck upon his back or pate, oh I 

And 'wherever he betook him, 

A papal bull was sure to hook him. 

Tracts he wrote by day and night, — 
People tore them in his sight ; 
Sermons preached by night and day, — 
But as ancient records say. 
Slumber stole upon the senses 
Of his cushioned audiences. 

Plagues like these a saint would vex, 
And *' a cherubim" perplex ; 
But old Luther bore them all ; 
For there was one that did dishearten, 
More by far the ancient Martin, 
There was one much worse than any 
I have mentioned, though so many, 
Many, great and small. 

It was this — oh horror 1 horror ! 
I the devil's pen must borrow 
To convey a mere idea ' 

Of this punishment severe ; 
Joseph Gillot's " Extra Fine," 
The pen Fm using, will decline 
To inscribe the fearful line. 
So I seize my porcupine. 
And extract his strongest quill. 
For I am resolved to write it. 
And with firmness will indite it« 
I'm determined, yes, I wilL 
XYII. 19 

146 AUTOGRAPHS. [Feb. 

Of a** diet of worms,** 
He was forced to partake I 
Of a" diet of toorms,** 
For the Protestants' sake 1 
Munching, crawling caterpillars, 
Beetles mixed with moths and millers, 
Instead of butter on his bread, 
A saace of butter-flics was spread ; 
Was not this a horrid feast 
For a Christian and a Priest 1 

And if you do not credit me, 
Consult D' Aubigne's history, 
You'll find what I have told to you 
Most fearfully and sternly true. 


I HAVE an excessive hatred of a certain kind of stuff written in Au- 
tograph books. It puts a modest man like myself quite to the blush. 
To have a classmate tell you in so many words that you are a " man of 
talent," a " a fine fellow," and " that there is no one of all the class whose 
friendship is so much to be desired" — all this, I say, is exceedingly em- 
barrassing to a man of innate modesty. Now mind I do not object to 
being told this, but the thing is to have it told in a delicate sort of a way. 
If a classmate thinks favorably of my talents or my disposition, or both, 
and wishes to let me know it, there are a thousand ways of accomplish- 
ing his object without using plain language. In general I do not object 
to plain language, either in rebuking vice or extolling virtue. I like the 
good old Saxon in both these cases. I do not like to have an idea so en- 
veloped with high sounding words that it is almost impossible to find it. 
This is, as Shakspeare has it, two kernels of wheat to one bushel of 
chaff, or more exactly, * a very small piece of butter spread over a very 
large sliA of bread.' 

But in the matter of paying a compliment to a friend who in your es- 
timation really deserves it, there is, it will be readily admitted, a certain 
delicacy of method to be observed. 

Another point, many things said in Autograph books are downright 
falsehoods. For instance, I see in the book of a person noted for his self- 
ishness and disobliging disposition something like the following : ** Your 
kind and gentlemanly deportment, your obliging disposition, have won 

1852.] AUTOGRAPHS. 147 

many friends. Continue to manifest the same characteristics through 

life and you will make friends of many, enemies of none." This language 

in such a case is nothing more nor less than lying. The only excuse is 

that the writer is not intimately acquainted with the individual of whom 

this is aflSrmed. ^ Then he is not warranted in using such language. But 

lie may be an intimate acquaintance, and such language is often used in 

such cases. Then the writer is obnoxious to the charge either of gross 

flattery or of ignorance of human nature. * 

Another kind of writing is often used in these books e(][ually reprehen- 
sible. I mean the practice of quoting sentiments designed to wound the 
feelings of the individual. It would seem that the sentiments expressed 
towards one another in these pages, and by which we wish to be remem- 
l>€red, should be sentiments of kindness and of love. Nothing which 
'W'ould tend to wound the feelings, either by alluding to disagreeable 
traits of character or by referring to past diflferences, should have place 
liere. To render ndy meaning obvious let me suppose a case or two. A 
classmate is intending to enter the ministry. You know that he will 
make a rather dull preacher. You quote from Thompson : 

" But when serene the pulpit you asceud, 
Through every joint a gentle horror creeps, 
And round you the consenting audience sleeps. 
So when an ass with sluggish front appears, 
The horses start and prick their quivering ears ; 
But soon as e'er the sage is heard to hray, 
The fields all thunder and they bound away." 

Again, a classmate brings to your room his book. He is a person 

"Whom you every way dislike — he is narrow minded perhaps — ^his tastes, 

it may be, run in a different direction from yours — possibly he is an old 

poHtical enemy — at any rate you cordially hate him. You ask him to 

take a seat — ^he declines — ^he is busy and cannot stop. You are glad of 

it and wish he had been so busy as not to have found time to bring round 

his autograph book. He closes the door behind him. What shall I 

Write for that fellow ? you say to yourself. He is a mean, contemptible 

Scoundrel He insulted me once and had it not been for the disgrace of 

the thing I would have given him a caning. A thought of Shakespeare 

^ns through your head. You take up his book and write, " God made 

him, and therefore let him pass for a man." 

This latter is an extreme case, it is true, but one that may happen. 
The former, however, is by no means uncommon. In the one revenge is 
is predominant, in the other the love of fun. An opportunity for perpe- 
tn^ng a joke too good to be lost is offered. And I apprehend that this. 

148 AUTOGRAPHS. [Feb- 

is the motive in general, rather than any ill will towards the individual. 
But it should be remembered that wit is a keen edged, tool, and requires 
to be handled with care. Says Cowper : 

*' The man renowned for repartee 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling ; 
Will plunge a dagger in your breast, - 
And say he wounded you in jest. 

By way of balm for healing.** 

But one peculiarity more I will notice in quotations for autograph 
books. This is a want of point I take up a book of a friend and read 
sentiment after seutiment from poets and other writers, having no sort of 
application either to the owner of the book or to the one quoting them. 
Sometimes it may be that relations of such a nature exist between two 
individuals that an outsider cannot appreciate a sentiment quoted. Very 
well. To this I do not object. Autographs and their accompanying 
sentiments are not for the benefit or gratification of mankind in general, 
but for the exclusive pleasure of the possessor ; and if in our four years' 
intercourse we have formed such associations that a word or a line may 
serve in after life to remind us of them, let us use it then. But aside 
from this no one can fail to see that in many quotations there is a want of 
appropriateness. This to my mind argues a lack of intereist on the part 
of the writer, or perhaps carelessness, or it may be a want of good taste 
and judgment It looks, too, as though a fellow was ^ hard up.** Now 
in such a case let a person " acknowledge the com," and quote from Sir 
William Hamilton where he dilates extensively upon the ** subjunctive in- 
Btinction of the connotative apperceptations ;" or if he be of a poetical 
turn of mind, let him quote the beautiful lines in Archbishop Whately, 
commencing " Barbara celarent," <$;c. Better let plain language than a 
bungling excuse show that you do not know what to write. But there is 
no need of this. Every one, as most do, by a little pains taking can 
write something appropriate. Let us in this take an example of one of 
our distinguished professors, who on being asked his autograph by a Sen- 
ior whose dulcinea^s surname was Day, took his book and over his signa- 
ture jotted down the words of Horace, " Carpe diem." 

But I have extended my remarks to a much greater length than I ifl' 
tended. My apology shall be that the subject is one of interest to me. 
I anticipate great pleasure from my Autograph book. It is a vase of rare 
flowers culled from the best cultivated gardens. It is a strong chain 
whose numerous links will be the only visible bond of union when the 
Bad farewell shall have forever parted existing ties. ^52, 


iH^morabilta 1^ aienaia. 


A " scholarship" is a permanent fund established at a University for the mainte* 
Loce of a student, who is called the * scholar.' These scholarships are of variou* 
ads, some being merely charitable in their object, while others are designed as 
Dorary distinctions — to exhibit and reward proficiency in study. 
The term " Scholar of the House," at this College was originally applied, by the 
"ection of Dean Berkeley, to those who were elected upon his foundation ; and of 
«, all who have been * scholars' upon the various other foundations, are in like 
inner designated. The domettic part of the appellation has no particular signifi- 
ace here, so far as we can discover. Whether this * House' was ever built, and 
30, what was its history and fate, are questions involved in mystery. Some have 
imated that it was never anything more than a ^ castle in the air ;' but those who 
ve stood upon its substantial ' foundations,' assure us of the falsity of this envi- 
B insinuation. Others, admitting that it once had an existence, with equal malice 
xrnnt for its present dilapidated condition from the fact that the good old Bishop 
Qscribed that none but ' Bachelors' could be admitted as tenants. From the vague 
fings which sometimes escape from the 'scholars' themselves, one might be led 
imagine it to be some beautiful part of the temple of Science, where the eyes of 
e vulgar and the steps of the profane may not intrude , and that the * keys' in 
mmon use about the college are unable to unlock its mystic portals. However 
b may be, we leave the matter for the antiquarian to explore ; and should his re- 
arch fail, we do not despair but that some enterprising romancer, by brushing it 
» and putting on a few * gables,' would be able to give it a * local habitation.' 
As Bishop Berkeley received his education at the University of Dublin, it may 
fair to conjecture that he borrowed the term thence ; and, on consulting, we find 
e terms ' Scholar' and ' Scholar of the House' used coextensively and indiscrimi- 
tely, from the earliest period in the history of that institution. We are not aware 
at the latter term is used in the English Universities. The word ' house' denotes 
the University, a hall or college. It may be interesting in this connection to state 
at there now exists in the Dublin University, a premium established by Bishop 
irkeley, in 1752. 

We propose to give a brief account of the various Scholarships in Yale College, 
Lth the terms and conditions of each, and a list of the scholars, beginning in the 
esent number with the Berkeleian. 


The Berkeleian Scholarship in Tale College was founded A.D. 1733, by Rer 
ecige Berkeley, D. D., Bishop of Cloyne, in Ireland. This eminent man, distin- 
oished as a philosopher and divine, no less than as a philanthropist, had long cher- 
bed the idea of planting a College in this Western World, for the education and 
•aining of the native heathen youth. In furtherance of this benevolent design, 
1 the year 1725, he issaed ** A proposal for the better eupplt/ing of churches in 


our Foreign Plantations, and for converting tJie savage Americans to Christianity, 
by a College to be erected in the Summer Islands^ otherwise called the Isles of Ber- 
muda" In this proposal he more fully develops the plan indicated in the above 
title, and closes with an appeal to the public for contributions, to be applied to the 
founding of scholarships in his contemplated College. 

This document is of especial interest in this connection, as being the first move* 
ment towards the founding of our Berkeleian scholarship, and as manifesting the in- 
tention of Bishop Berkeley in its establishment The following extract from it maj 
help to explain by wliat computation the amount of the scholarship was determiDed, 
a sum which, in these more civilized times, has been considered a short allowance. 
'*Ten pounds a year would, if I mistake not, be sufficient to defray the expeoaeB of 
ft young American in the College of Bermuda, as to diet, lodging, clothes, boolu 
and education ; and, if so, the interest of two hundred pounds may be a perpetual fond 
for maintaining one missionary at the College forever, and in this succession, manj, 
it is to be hoped may become powerful instruments for converting to Christianity and 
civil life, whole nations who now * sit in darkness and the shadow of death,* aod 
whose cruel, brutal manners are ft disgrace to human nature." 

His grateful beneficiaries could not select for him a more fitting epitaph than the 
concluding sentence of the ** Proposal," viz., ** A benefaction of this kind seems to 
enlarge the very being of a man, extending it to distant places and future times; 
inasmuch as unseen countries and after ages may feel the effects of his bounty, whOe 
he himself reaps the reward in the blessed society of all those who, having tuziied 
many to righteousness, shine as the stars forever and ever." It is not strange that 
thus impressed with the grandeur of his undertaking, he should have become in* 
spired with poetic and prophetic fire, finding utterance in those familiar verses which 
follow the conclusion of this *' Proposal," and which lose none of their interest b^t 
recital of the circumstances under which they were composed. 

** There shall be sung another golden age, 
The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great inspiring epic rage. 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

** Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 
Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
By future poets shall be sung. 

** "Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 
The first four acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 
Time's noblest offspring is the last" 

It were a pleasing and grateful task, did our limits permit, to dwell more at length 
upon the history of this enterprise, as well as to exhibit more fully the many traits of 
greatness, goodness and wisdom, which so eminently characterized this illnsuioos 
man, and which led even Pope, ihe satirist, to ascribe 

** To Berkeley every virtue under heaven.** 


It may be sufficient here to state that, soon after the above publication, he came 
to America with the view of carrying his plans into execution. He bought a coun- 
try-seat at Newport, R. I., and resided there for several years ; but becoming con- 
Tioced of the impracticability of his original scheme, and yet unwilling that the la- 
bor and expense which he had bestowed upon this object should be without their' 
fruits, he sent to Yale College a deed of his farm at Newport, to be held for the en- 
oooragement of classical literature. 

By the conditions of the deed, the rents accruing from said farm are to be appro- 
priated towards the maintenance of three students, who shall be called *' Scholars 
or THE House," during the years between their first and second degrees ; said schol- 
ITS being obliged to reside at least three-fourths of each of said years in the College. 
Hie candidates are to be publicly examined on the sixth day of May, or if that should 
be Sunday, on the next day thereafter, two hours in the morning in Greek, and ia 
the afternoon two hours in Latin, all persons having free access to hear the examina- 
tioD, and those who appear the best scholars shall be elected. In case of division 
of sentiment in the electors, the election is to be determined by lot. All surplusa- 
ges of money which remain by any vacancies of scholarships, are to be laid out in- 
Greek and Latin books, to be disposed of to such of the undergraduate students as 
diaU appear most deserving by their compositions in the Latin tongue, on a moral 
subject, or theme proposed to them. 

The books upon which the candidates for the scholarship are required to be exank' 
iied, are the Greek Testament, Homer's Iliad, Xenophon's Cyropaedia, Cicero's Tus- 
colan Questions, Tacitus and Horace. The amount paid to each " scholar" at pres- 
ent, is about forty-seven dollars a year. 

The subjoined list of those who have been " Scholars of the House," under the 
* Dean's* Bounty," may serve to show how far the result of this beneficence has ful- 
filled the design of the pious founder ; and it is a fact of no slight significance, taken 
^ coonection with the original purpose of Bishop Berkeley, that of this list near- 
y one hundred are marked as ministers of the gospel, foremost among whom is 
^Vesident Wheelock, who founded an Indian school, the germ of Dartmouth Col- 
^; while hundreds more of the same calling, not here enumerated, have been re- 
ipients of this bounty, in the shape of the smaller premiums, among whom may 
^ named David Bbainerd, the " Apostle to the Indians." 

This list is believed to be complete from 1733 to 1796. The old college record 
9,ying been mislaid, we have relied upon an accurate transcript of it from 1783 to 
777. President Stiles's diary affords a complete list during his presidency, to 1795. 
>uring the period of President Dwight's administration, from 1796 to 1817, the list 
1 imperfect We depend here upon the statement of the " scholars" themselves, or 
pon the recollections of others acquainted with facts, verified by cotemporaneous 
^tten evidence. Very extensive inquiry has been made in regard to the " schol- 
ia" of this period, both of the instructors and members of the respective classes ; 
od it is believed that the list is nearly complete. Where there was no examination, 
^e have so stated. In the years marked interrogatively (?) it might safely be affirmed, 
Perhaps, that there were no examinations, as that is the result of our inquiries ; but 
deleave the matter open, to elicit further information. 
The list from 1818tol851is made up from the college records. 





1738. Rev. Benjamin Pomeroy, D. D. 
Rev. Eleazcr Wheelock,D.D.,Prtf». 

Dart, CoU. 
17 84. Benjamin NicolL 

William Wolcott. Tutor Yale Coll. 

1785. Rev. Aaron Burr, Fres. Coll. New 

Rev. James Lockwood, TVi^or To/tf 

Elisha Williams. 
Samuel Williams. 

1786. Rev. Nathan Birdseje. 
Rev. Silas Leonard. 

1787. Rev. Mark Leavenworth. 
Rev. Gideon Mills. 

1788. Hon. Phinehas Lyman, Tvii. Y. C. 
Rev.Chauncey Whittelsey, Tut. Y. 


1739. Solomon Wellet. 
William Williams. 

1740. Rev. Jacob Johnson. 

Hon. John Worthington, LL. D., 
Tut<yr Yale Coll. 

1741. Rev. Richard Mansfield, D. D. 
Rev. Noah Welles, D. D., Tut. Yale 


1742. Jared IngersolL 

1743. Rev. Thomas Arthur. 

1744.. Hon. Wm. Sam'l Johnson, LL.D., 
Judge Suja. Ct. of Conn.^ Rep. 
and Sen. u. 8. Cong.fFrea. Col. 

1745. Rev. Warham Williams, Tut. Yale 

Rev. Jonathan Colton. 

1746. Rev. Pelatiah Webster. 

1747. Rev. Aaron Hutchinson. 

1748. Rev. Naphtali Daggett,D. D., Pres. 

Yale CoU. 
Rev. William Johnson. 

1749. Hon. James A. Hillhouse, Tutor 

Yale Coll, 

1750. EUhu Tudor, M. D. 
1761. Rev. Judah Champion. 

1752. Henry Babcock. 
Gurdon SaltonstalL 

1753. Rev. Seth Pomeroy, Tut. Y. C. 
Jacob Usher. 

1754. Rev. John Devotion. 
Rev. Justus Forward. 

1755. Rev. Luke Babcock. 
Moses Bliss. 

Rev. Nehemiah Strong, Tutor and 
Prof. Yale CoU. 
1766. Robert Breck. 

Hon. Simeon Strong, LL. D., Judge 
Sup. Ct. Mass. 






1757. Hon. Edmund Fanning, LL D., 

Oov. Pr. Edw. Is. 
Hon. Titus Hosmer, JRep. U. 8. 

Rev. Noah Williston. 
Rev.Benjamin Boardman, Tul,7.C. 
Hon. Silas Deanejiep. U. 8. Cong^ 

Minister to France. 
Rev. Roger Viets. 
Rev. Enoch Himtington. 
Alexander King. 
Jesse Leavenworth.* 
Rev. Matthew Merriam. 
Rev. Levi Hart, D. D. 
Woodbridge Little. 
Rev. Ebenezer Russell White, Tu- 
tor Yale Coll. 
Hadlock Marcy. 
Rev. Theodore Hinsdale. 
William Jones. 

Rev. Ebenezer Baldwin, ThttZC. 
Amos Botsford, 2\Uor YaU M 
Hon. Stephen Mix Mitchell, LL 

D., Tut. Y. a, Rep. and Ben. U. 

S. Cong,, Ch, Judge Sup. (Xof 


1764. Rev. Samuel Camp.. 

Rev. Diodate Johnson, 2W. 7. C 
Chauncey Whittelsey. 

1765. Roswell Grant 

Rev. Joseph Howe, Tut. Y. C. 

1766. Hon. Jonathan Ingersoll, LL D> 

Judge Sup. Ct. and LL Ow. of 

1767. Rev. Joseph Lyman, D. D. 
Hon. John Treadwell, LL D., Chv- 

of Conn. 
Hon. John Trumbull, LL D, M 

Y. C, Judge Sup, Court Conn. 
Rev. Samuel Wales, D. D., Tutor 

and Prof. Yale CoU, 

1768. Rev. Amzi Lewis. 
Josiah Norton. 
Rev. Elijah Parsons. 
Buckingham St. John, TuL Y. C. 

1769. Rev. Timothy Dwight,D.D,LLD.. 

Tutor, Prof, and Pres. of T. C 
Rev. John Keep. 
Rev. William Seward. 

1770. Rev. Joseph Buckminister, D. I^t 

Tutor Yale Coll. 
Hon. John Davenport, Tutor Talt 

Coll., Rep. U. a. Cong. 
Rev. Solomon WilUams, TuL Y.C, 

1771. John Hart. 
Sylvester Muirson. 
Joseph Woodbridge. 




72. Hon. Abraham Baldwin, Tut. Y. C, 

Pre*. Univ. Geo., Rep. and Sen. 

U. 8. Cong. 
Thomas Canfield. 
Rev. Joseph Strong, D. D. 

73. Roger Alden. 

Rev. William Robinson, 7W^. YcUe 

Rev. Ezra Sampson. 

74. Amos Benedict. 
Jared Bostwick. 

Rev. Reuben Holcomb. 
'75. Hon.Samuel WhittIeseyDana,i?<7>. 
and Sen. IT. S. Cong. 
Rev. Solomon Reed. 
Benjamin Welles. 
f76. Hon. Chaiincey Goodrich, Thtor 
Yale ColLy Rep. and Senator U. 
S. Covg.^ Lt. Gov. of Conn, 
Daniel Lyman. 
William Andrew Russell. 
(77. Dudlev Baldwin. 

Hon. James Davenport, Rep, U. S. 

William Hillhouse. 
(78. Abraham Bishop. 
Ebenezer Daggett. 
Rev. Frederick William Hotchkiss. 
(79. Hon. Jeremiah Gates Brainard^ 
Jttdge Sup. Ct. of Conn. 
Hon. Elizur Goodrich, LL. D., Tu- 
tor amdProf. of Yale Coll., Rep. 
U, S. Cong. 
Rev. Zebulon Ely, Tutor Yale Coll. 
'80. Oliver Lewis. 

Rev. John Robinson. 
81. Rev. Henry Channing, Tut. Y. C. 
Enoch Perkins, Tutor Yale Coll. 
82.* (None.) 

88.f Rev. Samuel Austin, D.D., Pres, 
Univ. Vt. 
Rev. Jonathan Fuller. 
Rev. Abiel Holmes, D. D.> Tutor 

Yale Coll. 
Oharles White. 
34. Ralph Isaacs. 

1786. Enoch Huntington. 

Hon. Samuel Huntington, Judge 
Sup, Ct.y and Gov. Ohio. 

1786. Rev. John Elliott, D. D. 

Hon. Thomas Ruggles Gold, Rep, 

U S. Cong. . 
Hon. Stanley Griswold, Senator 

U. S. Cong. 
Rev. Reuben Hitchcock. 
Rev. William Stone. 

1787. Roswell Judson. 

1788. Zachariah Tomlinson. 

Hon. John Woodworth, LL. D., 
Juche 8iw. Ct. of New York, 

1789. Rev. Dan Bradley. 
Rev. William Brown. 

Jona. Walter Edwards, Tut.Y,Col. 

1790. Thomas Mumford. 

1791. Barzillai Slosson. 

Hon. Josiah Stebbins, 7\tt. Y. Col, 

1792. Rev. Timothy Mather Cooley. D.D. 
Rev. Isaac Jones. 

Nathaniel King. 

1793. Rev. Jeremiah Atwater, D.D., Tut. 

Y. a, Free. Mid <fc Dick. Coll, 

1794. Stephen Mix Mitchell. 

1795. Ebenezer Grant Marsh, 2W. di 

Hehr. Inst, Y, C, 

1796. •? 

1797. Rev. Ira Hart. • 

Rev. James Murdock, D. D., Prof, 
Univ, Vt. ds And. Theol. Sent, 

1798. I 

1799. Benjamin Woolsey Dwight 

1800. Samuel Gray Huntington. 
Abiram Stoddard. 
Chauncey Whittelsey. 

1801. (None.) 

1802. Hon. Jesup Nash Couch, Judge 

Sup. Ct. Ohio, 
Hon. Jonathan ^ntington Lyman. 
Rev. William Lightbourn Strong. 

1803. Rev. Aaron Dutton. 

Rev. Sereno Edwards Dwight, 
D. D., Tut. Y, a, Pres. Ham. Col, 
Rev. Noah Porter, D. D. 

**Ma7 6, 1783. The day of beginning of vacation, and also of Dean*i examination, but no ean- 
itei ofiered. The only instance of omission since the foundation in 1733."--PRBiT.STiLi8'i MS. 

It is obvions that if the term of residence had been complied with, in every instance, there could 
« been bat a single scholar for each class ; but in consequence of frequent failures in this respect, 
acearoulated fund was still available. Hence in many years we find several scholars, who were 
»wed the emolument, in case of residence, sometimes in the order of merit, sometimes by lot, so far 
the funds were sufficient. See Prksidknt Stilks** MS. Diary. ^ May 6, 1783. Dean's exami> 
km. Four senior sophisters ofiered themselves and were publicly examined. They were so nearly 
lal that I directed them to decide by lots. The loU fell in the following order, Austin, HohMi, Fol*^ 
, White." 
VOL. XVII. 20 




1804 Rev. John Marsh. 


1805. Ziba Foot. 

1806. Alfred Uenneo. 

Hon.Henry StrongJJi.D.,7Vrf. r.C. 


Rev. Uezekiah Qold Ufford. 


1807. t 


1808. 1 


1809. ! 


1810. f 

1811. ? 


1812. (y<me.) 


1818. Rev. WUliam Theodore Dwight, 


D. D., Tut y. a 


1814. ? 

1815. (yone.) 

1816. George Hill. 


Charles Olcott. 


1817. Hod. JoelJoues, LL. D., Prei, Oir. 




David Nevins Lord. 


1818. Hon. Francis Hiram Cone, Judge 

Sup. Ct. Geo. 


Horatio Hubbell 


Hon. Thomas Clap Perkina 


1819. Jonathan Humphrey BisselL 
Hoa Asahel Huntmgton. 


1820. Horace Foote. 

Alexander Catlin Twining, Tut. 


Y. C, Prof. Mid. Coll. 


John Payson Williston. 
1821. Henry Wliite, Tut. Y. C. 


1822. Rev. Edward Beecher, D. D., Tut. 


Y. a, Prei. III. Coll. 

Rev. Henry Herrick. 


1828. Rev. Norman Pinney, Prof. Trin. 




1824. William Moseley Holland, Tut. Y. 


a, Prof. Trin. Coll. 
Hod. Ashbel Smith, M. D. 


Josiah Barnes, M.D. 

Hon. Thomas Slidell, Judge Sup. 

Ct. of La. 
Rev. John Phelps Cowles. 
Sidney Law Johnson, Tut. Y. C. 

George Champlin Tenney. 
Hon. £dmund Smith Rhett 
Henry Rogers Winthrop. 



Hon. Henry William Ellsworth. 
Henry Coit Eingsley. 
Charles Alonzo Gager, Tut. Tale 

Rev. William RnaseU. 

Charles Astor Bristed. 
Augustus Rodney MacDonougfa. 


William Davison Henneo. 
Rev. Cyrus Huntington. 
Lucius Franklin Robinson. 
Franklin Taylor. 
William Few Smith. 
William Gustine Conner. 
Robert Rankin. 

Henry Hamilton Hadley,7W. tC. 
Francis Lewis Hodges, 7W. F. C- 
Henry Martyn Colton. 
Benjamin Talbot 
Clinton Camp. 
William Woolsey Winthrop. 


At a meeting of the Senior Class held Saturday, January 10th, J. F. Biogbsi^ 
presiding, an election was made for Class Orator and Poet» to deliver the Farewell 
Address and Poem at the coming Presentation. 

Homer B. Sprague, of East Douglas, Mass., was chosen Obator, and WnuAX ^' 
Crapo, of New Bedford, Mass., was chosen Poet. 

A Committee of arrangements, consisting of A. Bigelow, D. C. Oilman, W* A. 
Reynolds, G. B. Safiford and C. D. Seropyan, was appointed. The Committee b*^^ 
already entered upon their duties, and we are assured that nothing will be wsotiq^ 
which can add to the pleasore or interest of the day. 




ClasB of 1858. 

Thoicas F. Dayies, 
Jakes M. Whiton, 
Edwasd G. Bilunos, 
Ibaao H. Hooan, 




New Haven. 
Boston, Mass. 
Hatfield, Mass. 

C. BaooES, Townsend, Mass. W. H Glbason, 

S. M. Capbon, TJzbridge, Mass. C. T. Lewis, 

C. G. McCuLLT, Oswego, N. Y. 

W. P. Aiken, 
T. Bacon, 


H. S. Bennett, 


J. M. Gillespie, 


Fair Haven, Mass. S. W. Eneyals, 

New Haven. 
Lancaster, Fa. 
Penn Yan, N. Y. 
Tarry town, N. Y. 
Adams Co., Miss. 


J. Olds, 
B. K. Phelps, 
H. C. Robinson, 
J. S. Smith, 
K. Twining, 

0. H. "Whittelsey, New Haven. 


J. Andebson, 

H.E Baboook, 

»• H. Barbett, 

W. P. V. Babtlett, 

H. BnroHAM, 

H. Bqbb, 

W. T. Gilbbbt, 

Buckingham, Pa. 
New Haven. 
Portland, Me. 
Portland, Me. 

A. F. Heabd, 
. Hedges, 
G. A. Johnson, 
G. Palfbet, 

Honolulu, Sand. Is. G. W. Smallet, 
Burrville. S. H. Tobey, 

New Haveix. A. J< Willabd, 

J. Con, 

Q. R. Dwelly, 
J. 8. French, 


Hartford. T. D. Hall, 

East Hampton, Mass. T. J. Holmes, 
New London. J. W. Hough, 

Hanover, Mass. T. M. Jack, 

Bridgeport. L. G. Tabbox, 

A. D. White, Syracuse, N. Y. 

V. F. Arms, 
H. R, Bond, 

0. W. BUNN, 
!*• A Catlin, 
••2. Greene, 


Norwich. S, B. Spoonee, 

Norwich. H P. Steabns, 

A. B. WooDWABD, Watertown. 

Pennington, N. J. W. L. Hinman, 
Brooklyn, N. Y. J. L. Penniman, 

Westborough, Mass. W. R. Webb, 

J. Catlw, Hartford. 

^^QQRiNs Habt, Burlington. 

G. W. Kline, 
S. L. Post, 

Sag Harbor, N. Y. 
West Chester, Pa. 

New Haven. 
Harrisburg, Pa. 
Circleville, Ohio. 
Groton, Mass. 

Racine, Wisconsin. 
New Haven. 

Ipswich, Mass. 
Westfield, Mass. 
Salisbury, Md. 
New Orleans, La. 
Worcester, Mass. 
MonsoD, Mass. 
New Haven. 

Oakfield, N. Y. 
Cleveland, Ohio. 

Groton, N. Y. 

Brazoria Co., Texas. 

Fredonia, N. Y. 

Springfield, Mass. 
Shrewsbury, Mass. 

New Haven. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
Georgetown, Ky. 

Lebanon, Pa. 

J. A. Welch, Brooklyn. 




On Wednesday Evening, Feb. 4tb., a Poem was delivered in the UnoDian 
Society, by Albert £. Kxmt, of the Junior Class. 


The Calliopean Society have adopted a neat and handsome breast-pin to be worn 
as a badge. It is made of solid gold, in the form of a modified Greek Cross, with 
elaborately chased ends. In the centre are three scrolls on which are inscribed 
« Calliope"—** Yale**—" 181 9.'* By the withdrawal of most of the Calliopeans from 
secret Societies, as well as from the increasing interest for its welfiEU'e, the adoptioa 
of a badge is rendered very appropriate. 


We beg the pardon of oar readers for having kept them so little informed vith 
regard to the important proceedings of this truly venerable Society. 

The hct is that its whole affiurs are conducted with such $trict teerecjf od the 
part of the members, that do our best, we find it extremely difficult to ascertain 
what they do and how they do it In fact we should hardly know that the Sodetj 
existed, if it was not for the peculiarly marked deportment of those who wear the 
golden key which unravels all the mysteries. An ambitious Junior, however, bu 
informed us that the inveterate ringing of the Lyceum bell to the tune of the Col- 
lege Quick Step, sadly interruptiDg the studies of the Sophomore class on ser* 
eral Monday evenings lately, has been to summon the members of this fi^tenull 
body. He furthermore asserts that in passing **the Society's Elegant HaU" (Queiyi 
President's Recitation Room ? Proof-Eeiider.) he has heard most alarming indica- 
tions of quarreling within, reminding him strongly of elections in an Irish ward, 
and that when seeking sleep after getting his lesson " quite up to the Phi Beta Kappa 
mark,'' his slumbers have been sadly disturbed and his morning recitations seriously 
affected by the alarming cheering of this Society, first for themselves, second for 
their newly elected friends and third for the Union of the States, the whole ending 
with the chorus of " Fi hi hL" 

After writing thus much we happened to remember that we once heard it aaid 
that the Rec. Sec of the Society was one of the editors. We have accordingly 
questioned him concerning its proceedings in order that we might report them. 

He was very silent upon the subject, ri^uested a week for reflection and consnl- 
tation, and at the end of that time, gave us permission to say that 

At a meeting of the Phi Beta Eappa Society held at the dose of last term tbe 
following Graduate Officers were chosen : 

President^ Hon. Henet Whitk. 

Vice Presidentf H. B. Harbison, Esq. 

Corresponding Secretary, Rev . Edwabd Stbong. 

TVeantrer, J. G. K Labned, Esq. o. 


We are surprised at ourselves for having neglected to mention before thb vbat 
service our worthy seniors are doing to promote the Fine Arts. 
At a cost of about an eagle and a quarter each, or say at a thoasand dollan for 

.852.] NEW PUBLICATION. 157 

tie class, their portmits are all to be lithographed — each * phiz' by itself, and being 
printed— not published/ are to be distributed for mutual admiration purposes. 

This is no chimerical plan. It is actually under way, and not far from half the 
lassbaye already been pictured in black and white, after the style of the charcoal 
(etches, and greatly to the entertainment of their friends. Some malicious pun- 
:er predicted at the outset that the affair would be the greatest phiz-zle of which 
le class had been guilty, but our Armenian friend Seropyan, to whose energy the 
reject mainly owes its success, assures us that such will certainly not be the case. 

We consider the plan in itself, on the whole, what the Frenchman would call 
be project ** grand, magnifiqv^^ pretty good," especially the latter. Its effects are 
kely to be felt both far and near. Just remember what a handsome class this is and 
len say, is it strange that the * Gallery of Illustrious Americans,' Putnam's new 
'ortraits of Cooper, Bryant and Irving, aye, even the engravings of our worthy 
acuity themselves, are expected within a year to go a begging, and that the '* Book 
r Home Beauty'^ is to look homely indeed by the side of the " Book of Handsome 

All the young ladies' Boarding Schools in town are said to be in agony lest they 
innot " secure the shadow ere the substance " vanish of those whose charming in- 
sllectual faces they have often watched in lectures ; and Female Seminaries all 
7er the land are sending in their catalogues, with gentle hints as to what they 
^aot in return — not the heart nor the hand but the face! Finally we hear that the 
^mmbull Gallery is to have an addition of another room for the sole purpose of 
igplaying those copies of the portraits of the class which are to be given to 

Thus much for being a handsome class. Who says he has not any class pride ? 

TSltm llnbliratton. 

^VKiNigcsNCBS OF ScENEs AKD Chaeaotees IN CoLLEGE. By a Graduate of Tale of 
the Class of 1821. New Haven: Published by A. R Maltby, 1847. 

Though this is not exactly a new publication, yet it may be new to many of our 
Naders, and hence, our attention having been drawn to it, we notice it. Certain we 
re that it is calculated to interest and benefit any student who will read it with due 
•ttention. The table of contents presents us a series of themes strictly collegiate, 
lUniliar and interesting to Yale students. And these are treated in a pleasing, 
traight forward, almost conversational style, like the words of an experienced and 
^d-hearted friend. The book grew to be such from what the writer at first in- 
«tided only as a private account of a commencement meeting of his class. "We 
^ve DO space or time for a regular review of it ; but we may say in general that 
^Jioagh we cannot agree with the author in all his views, we think them on the 

^hole quite just and valuable. Our editorial " dander riz" not that exactly either 

^ our editorial head shook dissent at the following : ** I question the expediency 
^ pertodica/t conducted by students; they are apt to affect tliem, or a number of 
**>«n»"with the Mcabies scribetuU, to the detriment of their better studies." Now we 
<^t admit this. However, he does call the ''Lit." the ** Methuselah of its order.** 
"^ vu in '47. What then must it be now ! Methuselah with a new coat, reju- 

158 editor's table. [Feb. 
^^^___^^ I 

Tenated, and likely to liye hia 969 years over again. We don^tbelieTe the **9ctM* 
above mentioned has hurt any of the contributors to the 17th volome, anyhow. 
But we won't quarrel with our author oil minor points. Every student, as a Greek 
would say, {vide " Crosby D " doing well would read and get one" of Mr. Maltbj. 
The Literary World concludes a spirited review of this work by saying, "We on- 
cerely advise every sorCa mother to place a copy of this little book in the hands of 
every mother's son when he leaves home for college." 

aElittor'0 Cable. 

*' Necaaiity, 
Thou surest prompter of ioTeatioo, 
Help ut to Compotition !*' 

Wb have commenced our Editorial Gossip in true autograph style, with a quota* 
tion, and, unlike many quotations, this one exactly expresses our feelings. And can 
you wonder t After a vacation spent, as winter vacations always are, in fun and 
hilarity, sleigh rides and merry gatherings, in the full flow of soul and the rich feait 
of careless enjoyment, we return to duty, and our last and least acceptable tboogiit 
is of the *' Lit" But the inquisitiveness of classmates, the inquiring glanoa of 
Freshmen, and the anxious, hopeful looks of contributors, meet us at every step ve 
take asking ** when is the Yale Lit. coming out ?" Reader, it is — ^be assured of Am 
fact — before you and eliciting your perusal. Of the labor, anxiety and pain it bs* 
cost, of the ink and paper expended, we say nothing. 

It is seldom that the Eds. of the ^ Lit" speak in the pages of the Magaane of 
its merits, or repeat the many praises and compliments bestowed upon it by co* 
temporary periodicals and others. The almost universal custom adopted by mag- 
azines, 6f puffing themselves, we never have pursued, being content that onrMag' 
should appeal to the sympathy of the reader through its articles rather tlian 
by any boasted pretensions upon its cover. But a letter received a few days since 
made us so goodnatured that we cannot forbear printing it. It is from a graduate 
of Yale, personally unknown to us, but he speaks in so friendly a tone and baeb 
his words by a subscription in perpetuum^ that we shall consider him not only ^ 
friend, but introduce him to coming editors as a noble patron of our pet Maga. 

Eos. Y. L. M., Beookltn, Jan. 6th, 18fii 

Gents : — From some cause or other I have not received my oop 
ies of the Y. L. M. for this present collegiate year. Perhaps you expected me to 
discontinue my subscription — if so, you are much mistaken, as I have taken t^ 
magazine since its commencement I expect to continue taking it as long as we 
both continue in existence. I value it so highly that I would not take $100 for tltf 
sixteen volumes I now have. Will you send me as soon as possible all the dqiB' 
bers of this volume already issued. I pay my subscription to Messrs. Olark, Ao*' 
tin & Co., 205 Broadway, N.Y., and they remit it to their agent in New Haven. 

If the members of the college could look a few years ahead, and feel as I do* 
they would unanimously subscribe, and not only subscribe but pny. Wishing 7^ 
«ll manner of prosperity during your editorial term, 

I am yours, respectfully, J. & 

1852.] editor's table. 159 

What say you to that, ye few who go about borrowing the Lit from classmates^ 
miunbliog that you think its pages dull and dry, and even boasting that you do not 
sutecribe for it, and if you do that you never pay ? Are its pages dry \ Compare 
them with those of any other College periodical — we make no exception, not one — 
and judge of our relative merit. Other College students — in the few Institutions 
where a Magazine is supported at all — are content with half the number of pages, 
poor type, paper, <&c., and openly solicit old compositions and orations, and charge 

more money than we. But enough There is another compliment, 

however, which we must mention, for it is conveyed in a manner the most pleasing 
possible, an|d one which we would suggest to others who think kindly of us. It is a 
soDtribution from one of our fair readers,— do not start, book-worm Student 1 we have 
naoj lady readers and one of them has placed at our disposal a poetical effusion 
i^hich we print in this number — '* A voice of praise from all." Did it attract your 
ittention as you turned over the pages ? If not, read it again and if you don't pro- 
M>Qiice it good, then, why — ^you don't deserve to know the one who penned iir 

The reader will recognize in ** A Graduate's Reminiscence," the 

umd of a well known contributor of a year or two since. His remembrance of the 
ICagazine is pleasing to us, and his easy, sprightly style of writing will ever prove 
iceeptable to our pages. Our good friends abroad will please notice th^t the scene 
of mirth and jollity is not at Old Yale, and that the morals of Yalensians are not 
io be judged by the frailties of a sister University. We are aware the belief is- 
mrrent among those who do not know any better, that College is a hard place, the 
r^ exterminator of virtue and moral principle and the nursery of mischief and 
"iotrng. We have no patience with such people or with such opinions, for the form- 
srare ignorant in thb particular, and the latter false. Yetithe grave observations- 
OD student life which we sometimes hear when away from College are really 
UDosing. We remember one. Not many weeks ago at a very pleasant tea-party^ 
the gossip turned upon College sports. One lady described in graphic style the 
Jwrrora of College initiations — how frightful — how wicked; *yes,' said she, 'they 
Bven place the initiated in coffins T * That is not so bad as other things Collegians 
^,' replied another, ' they put ladies in coffins by their flirtations I* We have only 
to say to such an implied charge, that the blame may be equal and the end of both 
ptttiea similar. Should any of our fellow-students be guilty of such atrocity we 
woald recommend a few pages of Whewell, and if these be well learned there will 

be neither opportimity nor disposition for mischief-making A witty 

frioid of ours, who is in the habit of doing such things, has perpetrated the 
fcJlowing: — ^The life of man is decidedly ligneous. In his swaddlings, and then- 
tboQts, he is a litiU thaver; soon comes to be called, by an admiring father, a chip 
tf the old block; at school often proves a blockhead; becomes a wild young man, 
poiiapa, and is a poor stick and a stumbling block in the way of others ; falls in love 
ttd his sweetheart is toooed before he can win her ; grows old and in the winter of 
life becomes a ** last leaf;" and ligneous to the end, sentimentally sighing * I toould 
not live alway,' he kicks the bucket or the beam, and is cofBned in mahogany. . 

Our readers are doubtless aware that the present is Leap year, 

iod are sufficiently well informed of the privileges and immunities therewith con- 
lected. It is proper, as we think, that the monotony of life be now and then inter- 
opted by change — that the sea of social manners and customs be freed from liabil- 
ty <^ stagnatioii by a difiSsrent current of its waves, and that new vigor be aoquir- 
d bj meaDB of a change of actors. Such being our theory, we have shown a dis- 



po8ition to facilitate its practice by procuring a number of extra chairs for our 
turn, and diRseniiuating among our fair friends the information that we un *ift' 

home.' St Valentine^s is once more upon us — and bringing ito' 

usual interchange of cooing affection and anonymous jest It is a time when 
BUS is hard driven, and the Muses courted for long, weary hours, with an 
though trusting devotion. In view of the great demands made upon the fount 
of poesy and prompted by a spirit of genuine benevolence to our fellow Btudenli^j 
the Editors have ordered the Sexton to exhume a sufRcient quantity of rqeetiij 
poetical contributions, and which at reasonable rates will be placed at the dispoHij 
of such as desire to express the gushing, bubbling thoughts, which strpggle tat \ 
utterance. The supply is exhaustlcsa and the variety unlimited. The prices halt] 
been airanged according to the fervor of devotion and originality of feeling wUflhj 
the pieces display, llie Sexton has placed several on the table before U8 for ii 
lion as specimens, but as the printer lias peremptorily refused to squeeze the typal 
any thicker together, we are reluctantly compelled to omit them. 


Our file of contributions, we are happy to state, is unusually large and unusaiDf 1 
good. A number of articles intended for this number are necessarily postponed i 
til the next. . . . "Westminster Abbey," *■ Ought women to vote;" **Tliou|bli 
and action, their freedom and development ;" have been handed to our colleague anil! 
are under consideration. " Down £ast and Out West" will appear in the 

number. Our correspondent signing himself '* Unus Eoruin," is t^\ 

spectfully informed that it is not the esnays competing for the priae, bat tht 
opes accompanying the essays and concealing the writers' names, which are retained] 
through the Post Office. These envelopes have all been returned, according to tbsi 
stipulation, but the essays are retained for publication, so far as deemed best . 
Our tlianks are especially due to a member of the Faculty who at so great a eoiiflf ] 
time and research, has contributed the article on the Berkeley Scholarship. It ii flti 
only list ever compiled, and its completeness and accuracy has been the reratt of j 
much tedious investigation. As a piece of historical and statistical information it ii^ 
invaluable. . . The request of W. S. C. of Alabama University, is readily gnnftedij 

Exchanges, Exa — Besides our usual list of magazines, we have received from BA 
any College, with a request that we exchange, the second No. of the "Styloa', 
We wish it all success in its kindred work, and hope the design'* to contribute to thi 

pleasure and improvement of the students," may be realized We axe hsppj 

and proud in once more receiving as a regular exchange the Knickerbodker. Tit 
appreciation in which it is held by the Students of Yale, is best attested fayfli; 

large circulation it has among them Several numbers of **To-Diyr B J 

weekly literary journal, edited by Charles Hale, of Boston, have been receivednd 

perused with pleasure. A longer notice is necessarily omitted Our ifr 

knowledgments are due to Senator Douglas of Illinois, for *" Speeches deUTsndift 
the Congressional Banquet to Kossuth, and at the Democratic Festival** 


In the Essay on " The Greater Distinctions in Statesmanship," p. 105, Ime 82, f« 
anobility read a nobility; p. 106, Ime 20, for families read formvlas; p. 108,liM| 
54, for sun henito read san benito; do. line 86, for prov€ read probe ; p. 109, line 10^ 
for constitutioncU read constituent ; do. line 22, for light read higoL 




Vol. XVII. MARCH, 1852. No. V. 

Wb hear much said now a days about Mistaken Philanthropy, False 
Sjrmpathy, wrong views of Humanity, incorrect notions of Benevolence, 

fc tnd the like. Whenever any individual or class of individuals proposes 
any scheme for bettering the condition of men — whenever any propo- 
■ition is made for relieving any class or any people fiom existing calami- 
ties — ^in short, whenever any new doctrine is set forth, concerning our 
dnties towards our fellow men, which differs from the preconceived no- 
tions of mankind, a great hue and cry is raised about these emotions of 
die human heart. These emotions are said to have become utterly per- 
verted and to have run away with the head. It is alleged that if such 

^ principles should prevail, justice would be entirely lost sight of, law would 
be dishonored, all government would be at an end, and society destroyed. 
That there may be a philanthropy abroad which would properly receive 
the appellation Quixotic, we will not say — but what we do condemn and 
protest against, is the habit of denouncing every philanthropic effort, 
ereiy humanizing work, as the result of a fevered sympathy. And here 
we would remark that this mode of treating these matters is not con- 
fined to any class of individuals, and what is not a little remarkable, one 
who accuses another of it, is in turn accused of the same by a third. 
Take an instance. A pious, devoted Christian has all his sympathies 
drawn out by the destitution of the heathen. He directs his attention 
ta their wants, and his purse is. freely opened to supply their necessities. 
But his neighbor has his sympathies drawn out in a different direction. 
JEb compassion has always been most excited by viewing the victims of 

TOL. XTH, 21 


Intemperance, and when a proposition is made for the total suppression 
of the traffic in intoxicating liquors, he eagerly seizes upon it as the only 
sure means of saving those for whom his sympathies have so long been 
aroused. For this, he is accused by the other of being led away by a 
false sympathy, or a mistaken notion of humanity. And the latter is 
himself accused of the same failings by a third person, a traveler it may 
be on missionary ground, who has with prejudiced eye looked upon the 
introduction of Christianity there. It would seem then that those who 
make such an outcry against philanthropy, draw no definite line between 
false philanthropy and true philanthropy, or rather, each one draws a 
line for himself, and these lines do not at all correspond with each other. 
The croakers are at variance with themselves. 

Since then these persons neither give us any definition of what they call 
" Mistaken Philanthropy," nor agree in their application of the term, the 
inquiry naturally arises, what is Mistaken Philanthropy? In order 
however to answer this, we must first consider what is true philanthro- 
py, using the term in its most commonly received sense. 

Philanthropy we conceive to be a synonym of Benevolence and also 
of Humanity — the union of the heart and hand in acts of kindness to- 
wards our fellow-men. It k not pity, not compassion, not mere sympathy. 
It does not content itself with feeling pain at the sight of pain. 
Its action is not confined to the removal of the object of its distress. 
It ceases neither in casual wishes that the' cause of distress in the 
object may at some indefinite period of time be removed, nor in vague 
prayers for the same end. It is rather the generous emotion of our 
nature, which, while it commiserates the object of its sympathies, forgets 
not to relieve it of its suffering. It is the spirit of a Howard periling 
every danger that the prisoner may be relieved. It is the spirit of a 
Swartz despising the pleasures of home and friends, and going to the 
distant Indies that souls may be converted to Christ It is the spirit of 
a Luther braving obloquy, contumely, and papal bulls, in order to render 
the Church below like that above. It is the spirit of Christ, who 
died that man might live. In a word, it is Love. Philanthropy manifests 
itself in different aspects. At one time it is meek, at another it is bold; 9^ 
one time it is mild, at another it is stern ; at one time it is gentle, at an- 
other it is severe ; at all times and under all circumstances it is lovely. 

Such then is Philanthropy, as we conceive of it. Let us see if this 
conception of it is not the true one. " Philanthropy," says Addison, " is 
the love of mankind — ^benevolence to the whole human family." " Be- 
nevolence," says one of our distinguished Professors, " is an active prin- 
ciple which centres in others, and is chiefly intent on relieving suffering*^ 


Whewell's idea of Benevolence is an affection which makes man, as 
man, an object of love to us. He states it as a moral principle, that man 
is to be loved as man, and this he terms the Principle of Humanity. 
Mr. Fox, in the British House of Commons, remarks — " Humanity does 
not consist in a squeamish ear. It does not consist in shrinking and start- 
ing at tales of woe, but in a disposition of the heart to remedy the evils 
they unfold." 

From these definitions it would seem that we are right in using the 
tenns Philanthropy, Benevolence and Humanity as synonymous. If 
then the notions which we have advanced respecting these affections 
aw correct, what are we to understand by Quixotic Philanthropy, False 
Benevolence, Mistaken Humanity ? It is perhaps to be regretted that 
they who make so much noise about these affections should have used so 
vague and indefinite language respecting them — that they should never 
have signified clearly what they mean by the terms so frequently used. 
It is left therefore to inference alone to determine what they mean. And 
we think from the spirit of their censures, the tones of their voice, 
the illustrations and comparisons they make use of, it will be no very 
difficult matter to divine their meaning. They mean, it seems to us, 
either a philanthropy which leaves justice out of view and which disre- 
gards the rights of others, or a philanthropy where the feelings are a pre- 
dominant feature, where wild and extravagant notions prevail. Some* 
times the one is intended, sometimes the other, and sometimes both. 

The question then arises, is the philanthropy of those persons of whom 
Ifistaken Philanthropy is predicated, included in either of these cases ? 
We answer, most certainly not. Take the first case. Such men neither 
keep justice out of sight nor desire to injure others ; for their very start- 
mg point is benefit to others, of whatever class, " equal and exact justice 
to a//," and it is strangely inconsistent for those who admit that this is 
their starting point to turn around and tell them that they desire the 
benefit of one class at the expense of another. Some appear to think 
that vengeance is the object sought for by these so-called Mistaken Phi- 
lanthropists. If it were, there might be some grounds for fearing, that the 
bounds of justice would be overstepped. Nor even is punishment the ob- 
ject sought for, and yet it might be, and still justice not be trampled on. 
But the philanthropist asks nothing of this sort He only asks that 
the wrongdoer cease his wrong doings. He will freely forgive him his 
evil deeds, provided he will leave them off. 

Again we cannot see that what may appear to be a wild and extrava- 
gant notion is evidence of Mistaken Philanthropy. If so then were 
Martin Luther and Philip Melancthon the most mistaken of Philanthro^ 


pista. Nor can we see that the manifestation of excessive feeling is evi- 
dence of Mistaken Philanthropy. K so, then was Christ weeping at the 
tomb of Lazarus whom he raised from the dead, the highest example of 
a Mistaken Philanthropist. 

We think, then, that those to whom this term is usually applied are 
not entitled to it — that they are true Philanthropists, overflowing with 
good will to all, and desiring nothing so much as the happiness of their 

But it may be objected that if benefit to others be the object sought, 
the means taken to accomplish this end are subversive of the principle! 
of order and good government, which is considered proof oonclusive of 
Mistaken Philanthropy. Far from it This is another point entirely. 
We are not talking about the means used to accomplish an end, but the 
end itself. A person may earnestly desire to save a drowning man, and 
according to the best of his knowledge, he may deem a certain rope 
which he has, the surest means of effecting his safety. This may or may 
not be the case — ^but, be that as it may, his humanity is not called in 
question, his judgment, his common sense, may be^ but not his be- 

Here then seems to be one diflSculty with the croakers — ^they shift flie 
ground entirely. No greater mistake can be made. But this is not the 
only diflBculty, nor by any means the greatest. In a majority of caeee 
where persons denounce philanthropists, we apprehend that self-interest 
lies at the foundation of their denunciations. This is not always the case, 
to be sure. We make all due allowance on the part of these persons fof 
ignorance of the subject, and prejudice against the individuals or the 
name they bear. But setting these aside, do not interests, real or sup' 
posed, prompt most of the anathemas against modem philanthropists! 
When we consider the manifold ways in which men's interests may be 
affected, we are not surprised that such is the case. For hardly a refonn 
can be mentioned which does not affect, more or less, the interest d 
some, either in their own persons or that of their friends, their prop- 
erty, their party, their town, their state, their country, or their sect And 
we do not blame indiscriminately all who thus denounce those who areact^ 
ing for the benefit of others. It is not in human nature to act contraiy 
to self-interest This our laws recognize, in not allowing ex parte evidence 
and in prohibiting officials from receiving presents from any quarter. 
But what we do find fault with, is allowing every little petty interest to 
thwart judgment, to blind reason, and to stifle conscience. 

We said at the commencement of this article, that of late much had 
been md about these matters. But we find that this croaking is an o]d 


stoiy. We find that Wilberforce in his philanthropic eflforts to abolish 
the Slave Trade met with the same opposition. M. Macnamai*a stigma- 
tized the measure as ' hypocritical, fanatical, and methodistical.' Col. 
Tarleton, of revolutionary memory, in answer to a speech of Wilberforce, 
said that " they who had attempted the abolition of the Slave Trade, 
irere led away by a mistaken humanity ; * * * these enlightened philan- 
thropists have discovered that it is necessary for the sake of humanity 
and for the honor of the nation, that the merchants in the African trade 
ahould be persecuted ; * * * let not a mistaken humanity in these enlight- 
ened times present a colorable pretext for any injurious attack on prop- 
erty or character." Such was the language used by the supporters of a 
traffic which the whole civilized world has now declared to be piracy. 

We do not wish to be inquisitive, but we cannot forbear making one 
inquiry. Perhaps in doing so, we may remind some of that passage in 
Holy Writ, which speaks of busy-bodies in other men's matters, but still 
we cannot help asking whether those who prate so much about False 
Sympathy and Mistaken Philanthropy, do themselves * loose the bands of 
wickedness, undo the heavy burdens, let the oppressed go free, break 
every yoke, give bread to the hungry, bring the poor into their houses 
and clothe the naked V Does not their Religion, theii* Humanity, and 
ihar Philanthropy, content itself with ' bowing down their heads like a 
bulrush, and putting sackcloth and ashes under them V 

We would not deny to such the feeling of sensibility, or pity, or com- 
passion. We would not deny to them painful emotions, in consequence of 
the distress they see. But we ask, whether, if this emotion prompts to 
any action At all on their part, it does not in too many cases prompt to a 
dewre to remove from their view the cause of this emotion — not to a dis- 
po»tion to relieve the distress from a benevolent and disinterested concern 
about the suflferer. 

Such are bur views of Mistaken Philanthropy. We believe that there 
is much less of it than is generally supposed, and that that which goes 
by this name, is the truest Philanthropy, founded in a just apprehension 
of the rights of man as well as his woes and wants. We believe also 
in its ultimate triumph, for as has been said a thousand times, " Truth is 
mighty and will prevail." c. m. b. 


St)e finMne of Sonqnt. 

Evert man has his day-dreams — ^has his hours when letting go his 
strong grasp on the material — ^the real, he loses himself in mystic memo- 
ry, or rends the veil of the future and throws up a highway to his destmj. 
Every man, I say, has them. The miser dreams of unexplored regions of 
gold; the statesman of Utopia ; the philosopher dreams of the arcana of 
Nature. And these are no less real to the dreamer than is the world of 
matter to the external senses, the outward man. The influence of die 
ideal on human character is too well known to be disputed or need defense. 

So, in the Empire of Books, there are essays and treatises on the 
physical universe, and also those whose world imagination creates and 
lights up. In the former, the attention is directed to forms which hund- 
reds have seen before ; in the latter to bright, new creations, fresh from 
the mould of Genius. In the catalogue of the latter stands the Undine 
of Fouqu6. He who has read this tale from the German, has tasted one 
of the sweetest cups that imagination has ever mingled for her votaries. 

To say that it is from the German is equivalent to asserting, that it 
differs essentially from the romance of every other nation. The Germans 
were early known as a fantastic people ; which characteristic during the 
middle ages merged into mysticism, and latterly they are absorbed in the 
silent world of Intellect. This ceaseless thinking, dreaming has made 
their literature rich in the imaginative — the poetical. The wild fency rf 
early times, mingled with medieval heroism and chivalry, and reined 
by a cultivated taste, has given rise to their noblest productions. None 
know better than the Germans how to weave into the literary woof 
electric threads, that thrill at every touch. Not only are there imaginar 
tive writings characterized by deep emotion, feeling, passion, but a strange 
supematuralism — a ghost-like gliding among the misty scenes. 

It is not, however, the present object to analyze German Romance, hot 
to inspect one of its brightest jewels. This inspection will not be made 
by going through with an actual analysis of the parts, but by producing 
some general facts illustrative of certain principles. 

I propose to consider this work in three respects ; its philosophy, ita 
romance, and its poetry. It is founded on the tenets of the Rosicrucians. 
The mystical notions of this sect of Theosophists working in the mind of 
Fouqu6 produced the character of Undine. The other persons represent- 
ed are of no consequence, at present, further than they assist in devel(^ 
ing the plot Undine is the unity. Around her clusters everything. 
She is the sun frt>m which every other body in the systexa reoeiyes light 



It is not essential to this essay to inquire into all the principles and 
articles of belief of the Rosicrucians ; they are as various as the charao- 
im of the individual philosophers. The system vras a river of feeble 
fimntain-head, but mighty tributaries. Among the most prominent may 
be named Fludd, Boehmen and Van Helmont. They believed that in 
the elements exist beings of peculiar characters and varied powers, 
haying forms and capacities adapted to that in which they live. Thus 
there were Sylphs in the air — Gnomes in the earth — Salamanders in the- 
fire, and in the water Undines. The Sylphs furnished the beautiful ma- 
diinery in Pope's Rape of the Lock, and the Undines are the golden base 
of this splendid structure of Fouqu6. 

These beings were supposed to resemble the human race — ^but were far 
more beautiful. Their abode was " beneath resounding domes of crys- 
tal," above which the constellated heaven glowed and sparkled with its 
itany fires. They wandered through coral groves, where in 

** Sunlight and Beagreen 
The thousand palaces were seen." 

The elements were subject to their control ; but they, at last, like the 
any bubbles of their native element, vanished, leaving no trace of their 
existence. From their bright and woeless present they dropped into anni- 
hilation, and were seen no more forever. The great chasm between them 
and the human race was made by the possession of a soul by the latter. 
How could an Undine pass this gulf and win immortality ? There was 
only one possible way by which this treasure could be obtained, and that 
iras by " forming the most intimate union of love" wi^h one of the 
hmnan family. 

Upon this dream of philosophy is built the Romance before us. For 
this Undine left the crystal domes of the Inner Sea — for this the Knight 
was led through the haunted forest, amid howling demons, grinning 
flpecters, and hissing goblins. From this, as a revolving fire-wheel, fiy off 
brilliant sparkles that meet the eye on every page of this exquisite tale. 
Whatever else may be thought of^ this strange notion, which is entirely 
worthy of the Fire-Philosophers, this must be conceded, that it involves 
sentiments of the highest order. As there is among men nothing nobler, 
or more god-like than the soul, so can there be no loftier ambition than to 
obtain it This was Undine's aim. She resolved to become possessed of 
this priceless jewel, with the full conviction, that she at the same time 
Incurred the sorrows and sufferings incident to mortal existence. 

She knew there was a God ; that from Divine power she derived being, 
mt a being flickering and brief as '* night's candles." She looked at 

168 THE UNDms OF FOUQUX. [Maroh, 

Him from afar. He sat upon jthe throne of the Heayens, all immortal, 
which she might never approach. The human race, whose Earth wu 
her Earth, were heirs of immortality. Deathless existence was the bright 
vision that held her eyes entranced ; a life whose wing would never droop 
in the endless flight of eternity. Such was the aspiration, and to attain 
to so glorious a height proved to be the destiny of the heroine. 

It may appear somewhat inconsistent, that to Undine should be giren 
such qualities of the soul, before she had in reality received one. But 
consistency abounds when we consider that by Bosicrucian philosophy, 
not modem systems, is this work to be judged. It did not concern the 
author how much those notions might differ from his or ours; his du^ 
was to maintain consistency in the parts of that system which he had 
adopted. Such is the philosophy of the character we are considering* 
This is the life-giving principle of the work. We shall next view it as a 
Romance. The term Romance has, in these latter times, been groflaly 
perverted ; has been torn from its native limits, and made to render 
honorable by its presence a base-bom race, until itself has incmred 
obloquy. That elevated, towering nature, that made it over-arch the 
prosy commonness of life, and like " the bridge of colors seven,", bear 
the enraptured soul to the very skies, has been to a great degree lost in 
common language. Some have made it synonymous with fiction. Some 
have called fiction its foundation and vitality ; while others have nsed 
both indiscriminately to represent mere untruths. Fiction may be simply , 
something feigned, whatever its purpose or object ; but Romance, m its 
proper signification, is the uplifting of the imagination to the highest and 
noblest conceptions of which the mind is capable. It is the uttered 
reveries of a powerful yet delicate fancy. Is it then unworthy of a great 
mind, because it is not regulated by physical laws ; because it bears not 
a political banner; because it is not a theological controversy? No one 
will claim this. There is a life within us and without, both of whiA 
have their events — their acts and actors, and the heroes of the one maybe 
objects of thought and judgment equally with those of the other, The 
sculptor and the painter have merited, and received the noblest pane- 
gyrics, and left behind them the most enviable name, when they have 
wrought out into palpable, visible forms, those splendid conceptions 
whose counterpart existed alone in their own brilliant imaginations. 
These creations of the mind, most of all things, show the divinity that 
presides in man. Are they not realities? As much as are Grecian 
statues or Roman monuments. That they are not palpable-—that tiia 
gross hand cannot touch them, does not at all prove their non-ez]8t6Bee< 
They have being. And that mind which cannot find the higheBt plearan 



in oontemplating its own unembodied creations, is yet too much the slave 
of matter. 

If this view of Romance appear somewhat ultra, zeal has led us to 
it) because, as has been said, its character has been vilely traduced. Its 
name has been attached to volumes of fiction, which were mere distorted 
caricatures of man's lowest thoughts and emotions. 

Undine, however, in a remarkable degree, possesses the primitive fea- 
tnres of Romance ; at the outset the reader finds himself on the circle of 
& new world. He enters. It is a world complete, yet novel. . Strange 
scenes and unexpected forms meet him on every hand. The changes are 
qiiick, brilliant and pleasing as the metamorphosis of magic. He looks 
uoimd for the magician, but none is visible ; still he feels that a wand 
is waving near, grasped by the hand of Genius. The scenes pass by 
like a beautiful panorama, on which the painted forms are living beings. 
He scarcely heeds the departure of the last, but seems to be grasping at 
the echoes, till they one by one drop asleep upon the breast of Silence, 
and leave him alone with his dream. 

It seems almost impossible that the pitch of interest could be much 
higher, or much better sustained. And this is positively essential to a 
Bomance of the first order. No one peruses it as a scientific treatise is 
studied, for the sake of accumulating facts and familiarizing principles ; 
curiosity must be excited at every step, impelling the reader right on- 
ward, absorbing his whole attention, until forgetting everything else he 
Kves in the narration, rejoices with the happy, weeps with the sorrowful, 
and in fine lends his soul to every emotion and passion that each succes- 
sive development may require. 

There are Romances in which a kind of gloomy grandeur is far more 
pgnminent, and there are those in which there is more uninterrupted 
Bimshine ; but Undine mingles these elements in a manner that uniform- 
ly pleases. We do not call this grand or sublime. But there is in it an 
elevated purity, an appealing to the noblest emotions of the human 
Bool, an unadorned simplicity that more than compensates. 

There are greater Romances, but few more charming and instructive. 
^e doee the book, but have seen a vision whose remembrance will not 
be lost for many a year. 

We are again met by false notions and contracted views when we 

Woald speak of the poetry of Undine. That nothing is a poem that has 

Hoi' rhythm and rhyme wait a theory, but is no more. It is no longer 

doabted that there is prose in poetry and poetry in prose. Such a change of 

•entiment shows that the general mind is getting a clearer and more cor- 

teot Tiew of this subject It is a matter of record, that there were ^ Am- 
VOL. zvn. 22 

170 TBS UNBiNx OF FOUQUX. [Karcli, 

atory poems in the shape of roses, looking-glasses, fans and ladies' gowns; 
drinking songs in the shape of wine-glasses, bottles, and flagons ; re- 
ligious verses in the shape of pulpits and altars ; rhymed epitaphs in the 
shape of tomb-stones ; and not to mention flying angels, and trumpets of 
&me, there were patriotic odes in the shape of Grecian temples, and 
Egyptian Pyramids." What then is poetry ? It is something more than 
metrical composition, — something more than simply building stuizas by 
the arsis and thesis. No word will define it No sentence can express 
its full meaning. Its definition may be found written out in the great 
poems of the world, those monuments which Genius has erected for all 
time. Every man may see its birth-place by turning his eye within. 
The invisible and spiritual must always precede the embodiment But 
on what is founded Undine's claim to poetry ? 

Its effect upon the reader's mind resembles those of great poems. Not 
only is this true generally and in the main, but there are some el^fant j 
exemplifications of particular analogies. Also the expression of its emo- 
tions finds an echo in the natural poetry of the soul — ^"the divine hu- 
mony within." And besides thus appealing to the passions for proofi, 
the intellect recognizes in it poetic features ; sees and knows at a glance, 
by a kind of intuition, that it was born on the Parnassus of the soul. 
Thus without and within lie the ungathered flowers of poetry, although 
their locations were not the result of care. When the ebullition of pas- 
sion, which submerged the soul, had subsided, the jewel was set; but 
what spirit-hand placed it there the storm of emotion conceals. If bold 
conceptions and beautiful imas^ery belong naturally to poetry, its claim in 
these respects at least stands good. The descriptions are not the work of a 
second-rate hand, but of an accomplished master. Its machinery indeedis 
superior to that of some poems which the world have agreed to admire 
and retain. It was borrowed from a source that furnished Pope with ma- 
terial for one of his finest productions. In truth the question constantly 
arises in the mind, why was not Undine composed in the form of a poem, 
since it possesses so many poetic qualities. The creations are original and 
unique. They are not merely a new assemblage of old forms, but some- 
thing positively novel, such as we could not have met with before. 

Undine possesses no languishing sentimentalism ; its muse is not one 
" that soft and sickly wooes" — the argument is higher. It discoorses 
of love, it is true, for everything good and great owes something to love 
— the spirit of malevolence dare never set itself up for supreme admira- 
tion ; but its love, burning and ardent as the heart of Passion itael( 
comes through the intellect purified though not abated. 

We cannot quit this topic without noticing briefly the character of 

1862.] LETTERS. ni 

Undine. Before she receives a soul it is strangely attractive. She seems 
as fickle as her native element — her thoughts are wild and mysterious,' 
and her conduct exceedingly perplexing. Now she is sprightly as youth 
itself — ^bright as summer sunshine, and again gratifies her sullen humor 
amid roaring torrents, crashing forests, and terrific tempests in the gloom 
of night Thus it continues, extreme following extreme — now this — ^now 
that, no stability — nothing definable. But over all there is an inexpres- 
sible loveliness, that surprises while it charms. 

When the great turning point in her history arrives — ^when a mere be- 
ing is elevated to immortality, a wonderful change comes over her. Be- 
fore all was " incarnate passion ;" now the soul with its mysterious union 
with mortality, its wide scope of vision embracing Heaven, Earth and 
Hell, all the hidden events of an endless future, mantles the wild merri- 
ment in dignity and womanly reserve. 

8uch a character when once conceived in the mind, though unembodi- 
ed, can never be forgotten — its beauties will charm the memory forever. 
Thus it is with the great creations of the imagination ; they become 
woven into our very being, a part of life itself; a dream when we dream, 
and when we awake a reality.- He is the greatest who from his own re- 
sources creates and discloses to the minds of his fellow men a new char- 
acter, whose remembrance and influence shall be coetemal with the heroes 
of the world. c. d. h. 


I DISLIKE exceedingly the phrase, " a beautiful letter." I am no better 
pleased with those who speak of " fine" letters. It is too common of late 
to instruct people to give the appearance of a finished production, 
to that which should be the frank expression of their wishes or commu- 
nication of their ideas. I am more pleased to receive a note from a 
child-friend who tells me in his boyish prattle, of his little joys and griefs, 
than to get a missive from one who, I wager,^ has corrected the sheet I 
am reading, four or five times, before sending it to the post. 

.Yes, take away this Cowper, and give me that packet you will find 
in the drawer, full of warm gushing emotions that speak to me of a 
heart which, whatever it may be to the world, greets me with its living 
fotmtains of sympathy and love. It minds me of a heart that is not 
caakeved by f(»mality and stifihess. It brings me back to youth again, 

172 LETTERS. [Marchf 

and I feel ten years stronger than before. I know that the writers of a 
few are saying what they feel, and have not stopped to dress their thoughts 
in courtly language, and I thank them for it Put back this Gray, and 
let me revel while I may in this language of the heart It makes me 
better than I was ; bringing up the memory of other days, when 
I was careless as the writer. I would give much to be so now. Wh6& 
the world has grown even more thoroughly selfish than at present, let 
me never see a letter, written as the feelings dictate, but until then I pro- 
test against these new-fashioned ideas. They invade the most hallowed 
objects of my aff^tion. 

I prize my ** letters received," as the best evidences of character I can 
obtain. Let me read this one first It is cold and formal. I know at a 
glance from whom it comes. He is a morose worldling who would blot 
all aflfection fr .m existence. Here is one so very precise, that you invol- 
untarily drop it, afraid that you have committed sacrilege by 
You almost start to get it framed, so coldly Platonic is it, that you fear 
lest it should be defiled. It is the production of one of those staid, me- 
thodical personages so common in every community, who are always 
preaching — " A place for everything and everything in its place" — ^may- 
hap from a boarding school mistress who has answered your application 
for the entrance of your sister. She tells you she can come — ^underscores 
the words, " all possible attention paid to the morals of the pupils f and 
half intimates that she wonders at your addressing Iier without the pref- 
atory title of " Respected." You breathe easier when it is finished, and 
thank heaven that you are not " as this mortal." Here may be one from 
an instructor, at your preparatory school. He loves you, you feel as- 
sured — would be happy to see you take your share of College honors; 
in fact, this very letter is written with a spirit of kindness, to urge you 
to tell him why you have not done as well as he expected. But for 
what reason should he throw around his very aflfection, words whidi 
deaden its influence, and fall like lead upon the heart ? Why will he bind 
an incubus upon the love he so clearly feels ? Yet he does so, and you 
lay aside your sheet with the feeling, " that you don't care, he cannot 
have realized your diflficulties." So the letter has gone unanswered. 

Now you take one from home. You hasten to unfold it — throw away 
the envelope, (for a season only, for that too is precious,) and the first 
words rivet your attention. Here is no deceit It is a breathing of 
sincere hopes, an utterance of true love. In comparison, you esteem 
the former as of no value. No person who was a hjrpocrite wrote that, 
and you imagine ^ou will not find another like it How it dwells upon 
your prospects — ^how it telb you of the hopes you are expected to fulfill— 

1852.] LKTTBRa. 173 

bow it nerves you for the contest of life ! And it is because it is written 

sasily, that you love it Drape the same in any other manner, and it 

loses its charm. Ha! ha! a conventional mother's-letter! The very 

idea makes you laugh heartily. Why, bless your honest heart, my learned 

Qriend, I don't want you or any one else to instruct my friends to write 

me polished letters. There are two different paths in the world for us to 

go in, if you do, for so long as I am not a walking dictionary, you and 

[ will be at variance. 

As you look over your letter^ you come to one package you have tied 

with a black tape. And if possible, you have folded these more carefully 

than the last — for their very presence is eloquent of one who takes now 


** — ^rest more sweet and still, 

Than ever nightfall gave ; 

In the world beyond the grave :" 

and as you reflect that the hand that wrote them is mouldering in the 
earth, you sigh with regret. You do not look at them often. They 
are too sacred. You do not show them ; for they have become objects 
of jealous care. * 

Are not letters properly written, more important indices of character 
than you had supposed ? Do you not feel like execrating the man who 
first published " The Complete Letter Writer ?" Nay more, will you not 
strive to avoid labored letters ? Talk from your heart to that of your friend, 
faithfully, else he will neither care for you or your words. A good corres- 
pondent is invaluable. He strengthens the ties of friendship while liv- 
ing ; — ^he prepares for a grateful remembrance after death. His letters 
are gems in the bond of human association. But they must be real di- 
amonds. The cultivated heart shuns paste jewels. 

It may be a hard thing to break through habit. You who have writ- 
ten your letters logically, rhetorically, may find it easier to do so now. 
But once acquired, this abandon^ as the French have it, will soon vindi- 
cate its own claim to supremacy. Before it, the grim phantoms of un- 
meaning courtesy, dissimilar to true politenesss as darkness to light, will 
fiade into the contempt they so richly deserve. Try it for a year, and if 
your correspondence loses elegance^ you will find it to have acquired 
a sincerity you have in vain looked for before. A few have found 
this out, and it is the secret of the freshness and grace of some of 
our best series of letters. Do not be behind Nature, if you are behind 
the times. f 


Bomn <Sa0t anb (S>nt tDtst. 

'"The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun : the Tales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between 

The venerable woods: rivers that move 

In majesty ; and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadows green.'^ 
* * * * . 

** These are the gardens of the desert, these 

The unshorn fields, boimdless and beautiful, 

For which the speech of £ngland hath no name — 

The Prairies.'* BtyarU. 


Willis, in spealdng of one of the annual gatherings of young men 
from the various parts of America around the loved shrine of our Ahna 
Mater, says, " It is not thought extraordinary in Europe that the French 
and English, the German and Italian, should possess distinct national 
traits : yet one American is supposed to be like every other, although the 
two between whom the comparison is made, were bom and bred as &r 
apart, and in as different latitudes, as tl\e Highland cateran and the bri- 
gand of Calabria." As one daily recognizes the &ct here intimated 
among the youth of Yale, the thought often involuntarily passes through 
the mind. What are the causes of the differences of character ? 

Ancestry, Location and Mode of life, have each their respective influ- 
ence in fon]|ing the character of the man. The Pilgrim has transmitted 
with his blood a goodly share of his austerity and rigid piety even to this 
day, and the French who dwell upon the Father of Waters are the same 
merry, careless and indolent race*as their fathers who accompanied La 
Salle and Father Hennepin in their exploration of those lonely savan- 
nas and introduced the civilization and the vices of the whiteman to the 
unsuspecting Indian. The gray old hills of New England nurture among 
their bleak vales and upon their stubborn soil a hard-faced, hard-fisted 
yeomanry adapted to the region. The pine woods of Carolina and the 
tropical exuberance of the Florida wilds send forth from their warm re- 
treats men more passionate, imaginative and volatile. That the mode of 
life has an effect upon the character of the man is equally evident The 
book-keeper is a very different being from the ploughman in his mental 
as well as physical condition. 

It may be interesting to note the effects of tihese causes upon the New 
Englander and the inhabitant of the Mississippi Valley. 



The New Englanders are as a body the proud descendants of stem 
Others. It is their boast that their lineage is that of the Puritans. It is 
the remembrance of their stem virtues, their inflexible defense of free- 
dom, of person, and of mind, that animates their offspring to show no 
slack allegiance to the King of kings. Tme they are sometimes followed 
too &r ; sometimes not far enough. Perhaps we find even now too much 
of the same spirit that caused the Pharisees of old to make broad their phy- 
lacteries — too much regard for outward appearances, unaccompanied by 
the sincerity of the Puritan's devotion. Still a strong pervading element 
of New England character is Puritanism. 

The Mississippi Valley shows no such union of sentiment, derived from 
a common parentage and common principles. Settled by the French ; 
long in the possession of the Spaniards, and, in latter days, the promised 
land of European immigrants and settlers from the Atlantic coast, it has 
been and for years will be a mobile, unprecipitated mass, the component 
parts of which are so variable that the result of the mixture cannot yet 
be determined. 

In the natural features of these two sections we find an essential dif- 

New England is " the hill country" of our modem Judea. Like Switz- 
erland, its pine-clad hills and deep valleys, murmuring with a thousand 
waterfalls ; its rugged soil and harsh climate, that furnish no incitement 
to ease or voluptuousness, seem designed for a hardy, energetic race. Nor 
ii the design unfulfilled. The old Saxon blood that beat so high in the 
pahny days of *merrie England,' has not degenerated in being transferred 
to the western world. The old German saying, 

" Nuremberg's Hand 
Geht durch alle Lacd,** 

hardly expresses the energy, enterprise and originality of New England 

It must be confessed, however, that ^' a life on the naked soil" has im- 
planted characteristics less provocative of pride and pleasure. The con- 
stant striving*against unpropitious soil and climate seems to be the cause. 
Goldsmith says of the Swiss : 

" Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain 'is breast, 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest : 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks and. charm the way ; 
These, far disposed, on timorous pinions fly. 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky." 

176 DOWV SA8T AND OUT WX8T. [Mudl, 

But for the refinement introduced by universal education, the same would 
be, to some extent, true of New England. As it is, we find the people 
colder in their sympathies, more parsimonious than their countrymen in 
more favored regions. 

K we turn to the States of the West, we shall find nature in a di£b- 
ent but no less impressive garb. We shall see mighty rivers hurrying 
down their ample tributes to the god of Ocean. Forests of lofty trees 
reach their huge limbs towards heaven, and seem like giants of old to be 
striving to reach the skies. Broad prairies stretch out, as £eu* as the eye 
can reach, in monotonous grandeur, green with the verdure of summer 
and sinking and swelling in the sunlight The earth pours forth its in- 
crease almost at the asking in the profusion of a tropical clime. To use 
the words of Father Hennepin, uttered more than a century and a half 
ago, " Nothing is there wanting to lay the foundation of one of the 
mightiest empires in the world." 

What effect do these peculiarities have upon the inhabitants ? 

" To look on nature in her loftier moods" is an inspiration. Hence 
perhaps it is that we find the western imagination more extended and 
magnificent in its conceptions according as the mind is inspired with the 
grandeur of the primeval forest or the lonely prairie. True this often 
leads to bombast and the so-called ^^ western eloquence." Imagination 
unfettered by reason, unpruned by education, takes the single step which 
alone, we are told, lies between the sublime and the ridiculous. This 
feature however has made western oratory universally popular, and nn- 
der better control will become a powerful element 

The fertility of the soil and consequent ease in obtaining a competence, 
banishes the extreme frugality of the New Englander. Men are more 
open-hearted and open-handed. The stranger meets a heartier welcome 
and the friend a readier assistance. 

The New Englander's njode of life more resembles that of the old 
world. The country is growing old ; society settled, and children follow- 
ing in the footsteps of their fathers, tread a more and more beaten drde 
of observation and duty. The Westerner has a wide field. Amid a 
sparsely settled country he may see fewer men but more diversity — ^mere 
of nature. The one is thus moulded by society — ^the other more by na- 
ture. The one has those advantages of education and refinement, found 
almost exclusively in populous communities — the other the freshness and 
originality that they only possess who dwell amid the murmur of wood 
and stream, afar from the busy city with a crowded population. 

Under these influences we find the New Englander and the WestCTner 
repreeentatiyes of very different classes of men. The Yankee k moral 


and long-faced, even in his sharp trading. The Westerner must swear, 
even in doing a good action. The New Englander calculates, the West- 
erner reckons. One feels more than he expresses, the other expresses 
more than he feels. The pride of one is his acuteness, of the other his 
bluntness. One solicits popular favors by puppet play, the other by a 
direct presentation of his own claims and opinions. If we pass over New 
England we shall find a schoolhouse upon every hillside, a church in 
every valley, evincing the tendency of the popular mind. We shall find 
m inquisitive race, a general ^^ wanting to know" and solicitations to *' do 
tell," a cold reception as a stranger, a warm one when the ice is broken : 
air daughters, brave sons and wise fathers. We shall see more than one 
Seld where our fathers fought for the destinies of the infant nation. 

]£j on the other hand, we traverse the prairies of the West, we shall 
meounter a race of men "half horse, half alligator, with a touch of the 
mapping turtle," able " to whip their weight in wildcats," and bound un- 
der all circumstances to " go ahead ;" the pioneers of civilization ; the ha- 
ters of Indians ; the truest of friends and the noblemen of nature. These 
are the first wave of the tide of civilization which is rolling westward. In 
their rear we shall find another class who form the grand body politic, a 
mixture of all nations, yet possessing many qualities in common. Here 
ve shall find less of the learning of the old States, fewer schoolhouses, 
fewer churches ; a sparse population, and millions of acres where still 
"the rank thistle nods in the wind and the wild fox digs his hole un- 
ficared." We shall be hail fellows well met with every one we chance to 
encounter, and even if the unvarying appellative be " stranger," we shall 
le welcome at every fireside. We shall find everything new. A few traces 
of another race are around us, but these are fading away even faster than 
those who left them. Towns are springing up along the river banks as 
if created like the palace of AUadin, in a single night, and where to-day 
the prairie flower is blooming to-morrow the rank grain will grow. 

Such is New England and such the Great West ; either a land for a 

man to be proud of, and to which he will turn with gladness wheresoever 

ie may have wandered. Rightly does the New Englander exult in his 

and, and we not one whit the less in ours by the great rivers of the West* 

We are proud of New England as the home of our fathers, and the home 

►f those who have fled from oppression. And as we look upon the dozen 

)tates, and more, included in the Valley of the Mississippi, the millions 

•f inhabitants scattered within its borders, the mere germs of nations 

'et to be, and read the destiny of the country in what it is, we cannot 

mt feel that here lieth a young giant asleep, whose wakening shall tell 

ipon the destinies of man. ^. 

VOL. XVII. 23 

178 FILL A ccp TO THE PAST. [March, 

iill a Cup to ti)e {lost. 


Fill a cap to the Past ! for its sorrows and pain 
We never can know or can suffer again ; 
Its grief and its anguish can never impart 
The shade of its sadness to darken the heart. 
But our joys and our pleasures Time never can steal ; 
As we felt them before, them again shall we feel : 
And while memory roams through the field of the Past, 
Forever their bloom and their freshness will last. 


Fill a cup to the Past ! a libation we pour 
To the friends whom we loved, but who now are no more ; 
They have gone from among us, the ardent, the young. 
Their dirge we have chanted, their knell we have rung ; 
And if ever your shade can revisit the earth, 
We welcome you here to our joy and our mirth; 
Though unseen, be present ; your memory dear 
We pledge, and the goblet is crowned by a tear. 


Fill a cup to the Past I from its shades I recall 
The remembrance of her who was dearer than all ; 
Like a glimpse of the sunshine in darkness above 
Was that light that was fanned and was kindled by love. 
And e'en the remembrance can over me throw 
The gleam of that gladness earth cannot bestow. 
Like the rose she unfolded her fragrance and bloom, 
To brighten with beauty the waste of the tomb. 


Fill a cup to the Past I to its pleasures and woes, 

To our joys and our sorrows, our friends and our foes: 

To the hopes that breathed brightness, the fancies that cheered, 

The much we desired, and the much that we feared ; 

To each and to all I we will never regret 

Misfortune and sadness we soon may forget ; 

But the garland of joy culled in love's fairy bower. 

Of that wreath, Time can never e'en wither a flower. 


Colkgiatc (Kbttcation in t\)t tUwt. 

country, comparatively speaking, is all yet in its infancy. At most, 
idian glory of the full grown man, can only be predicted by the 
do wing greatness of the vigorous youth. This, though applicable 
vhole of our country, is nevertheless peculiarly the case with that 
able portion, the " West." Where twenty years ago the savage 
around his fires, and chased the bounding game over the prairies ; 
►wns, cities, and states, have sprung up like exhalations. In the 
f this unprecented growth in the material comforts of civilized 
ication has not been neglected. Science is peculiarly the child of 
blished and settled society ; the offspring of leisure and wealth ; 
re only can we look for its greatest achievements. This is too 
own to require illustration. From the manner of settlement in 
item States, circumstances have been very unfavorable to the cul- 

of mind to that full extent which will ere long be done. While 
e I consider the subject of Collegiate Education in this part of 
ion, it will not be by disparagement, but rather with an honest 
at so much has already been accomplished. Besides the disad- 
s usually incident to a new country, the heterogeneous character 
population has been unfavorable to strong effort in Education, 
jver severely felt, and as I intend to show, has modified Western 

institutions much, to their injury. In this respect the Atlantic 
lave unquestionably had the advantage. Here one class of inhab- 
most exclusively settled the same district, and hence united effort 
3 secured. Add to this fact. New England was colonized by a 
)f high literary character originally, who raised the walls of the 
r house, the school, (I may almost say the College,) and the 
simultaneously. The Southern and Middle States were generally 
)y people of like character, and possessed at least this advantage ; 

it does not seem that they have profited by it so as to surpass 
unger sisters in respect to Colleges. But notwithstanding these 
d circumstances, a disposition was manifested by our western 

to lay a firm foundation for Collegiate Education. Most of the 
lade provision for the establishment of Colleges by grants of 
portioning a definite amount in each state to be held perpetually 
purpose. These lands were not sold to settlers, but leased for an 
;e period, and at a moderate rent, which income was to found and 
iie College. As soon as the funds were sufi&cient, proper build- 


iDgs were erected, Professors called from the older states, and a miniatoie 
Oicford set *^ a going.^ But the State Universities did not satisfy. Many 
reasons can be assigned for this : such as the increased wants of a grow*, 
ing population, and the wishes of sectarians to establish institutions on 
bases to suit themselves. In respect to the system of State Universities, 
amid undoubted beneficial results, there have also been some disagreeable 
consequences. The Executive Board being chosen by the Legislature, it is 
too often the case that favoritism has to do with their selection, and un- 
worthy Directors are the result. This added to the fact that the political 
horoscope frequently changes, and a corresponding change in the Board 
often occasions trouble between them and the Faculty. I have known 
several College officers of exemplary worth disgraced, because they 
happened to have political views at variance with "the powers that 
be." Some would be legislators have likewise held that ministers of the 
Gospel should not be College officers; which drove the different religious 
sects to the establishment of Institutions und6r their immediate direction. 
The consequence of these various reasons has been the multiplication of 
Colleges to a degree unprecedented. This, in my opinion, is the parent 
of nearly all the evils which attend Western Colleges. As a single 
State University was insufficient to meet the demand, the number 
of Collegiate institutions is now manifestly greater than necessary. 
A single state having sixteen Colleges, empowered to confer the usual 
degrees, must needs be overstocked. Let us consider for a moment the 
disadvantages of this multiplicity. The founding of a College must 
necessarily involve a very considerable expense; so much that recent set- 
tlers are but ill able to bear it. The undertaking being too large, the 
work will be imperfectly done ; so that when the edifice is finished, there 
will be nothing left for Libraries, Apparatus, and for Professors' salaries. 
The young institution being embarrassed after her patrons have exhaust- 
ed their Hberality, will have to struggle with difficulties too great for her 
strength. Funds being scarce, the expenses must be met by the pupils' 
fees, and thus there will be a desire to increase the attendance as much as 
possible. This, unavoidable as it is, leads to easy terms of admission, 
and elastic government in College ; since numbers cannot be dispensed 
with without greatly endangering the existence of the institution. As 
rules of discipline become loose, and the grade of scholarship low, the 
facilities for obtaining degrees will be increased, and hence they will be 
less valued. All these injurious effects will be heightened by the number 
of Colleges affected in like manner through want of resources. This 
state of affairs is not equally the lot of all. Some Colleges in the 
Western States could be specified, which from their foundations derived 


x>m the state, or other sources, have risen above pecuniary difficulties- 
inch are Miami University, 0., Centre College, Ky., and Asbury Univer- 
ity, Ind. Yet the number is a disadvantage which effects all to some 
xtent If the different and seemingly conflicting interests could be united, 
kere would be Colleges at once in the West which would compare favor- 
ably with any in the United States. In the face of all difficulties, the course 
>f instruction is really superior to what is usually supposed in the East. 
?rom the age of the country. Professors must be sought elsewhere. 
3ence, with very few exceptions, they are graduates of Eastern Colleges 
jr European Universities. Having equal advantages for acquiring educa- 
icm, we cannot reasonably consider them inferior to others. But though 
nany of them would grace a chair of science anywhere, yet they cannot 
n every instance be as thorough in instructions or as rigid in discipline 
18 they could wish, for reasons enumerated above. However, from the 
opportunities I have had of observing discipline at Western Colleges and 
At this place, which is considered the most rigid in its laws of all Eastern 
[nBtitutions, I must confess the difference is not very greatly in its favor. 
Ihe Literary advantages are there, as in every place, far more than are 

Respecting the grade in scholarship, the greatest want is in the 
dasaics. There is a good reason for this which will be specified here- 
after. In the Natural and Moral Sciences, the instructions are full, and 
tie improvement such as would be highly creditable anjrwhere. There 
is no reason that it should be otherwise. Improvement depending more 
on strength of mind than careful drilling, progress can be made there as 
^ell as elsewhere. But the early part of the College course depending 
more on long and careful preparation in the learned languages, the attain- 
ments are not so good. This, as above said, has an evident cause, which 
consists in the very imperfect means of obtaining a proper "fit" for 
College, for which the preparatory schools are entirely inadequate. 
In truth, there can scarcely be said to be one Academy of the right 
character, to prepare the numerous candidates for the more advanced 
course. The number seems to .be in an inverse ratio to that of 
Colleges. Were three fourths of the latter turned into Academies, after 
tlie Andover and Exeter stamp, the most beneficial results would be 
secured at once. But when a person proposes to take a Collegiate course, 
le must employ as a teacher some professional character, who, by reason 
<>f time and multiplicity of duties, has lost the greater part of his 
classical knowledge. The disadvantage of employing such a teacher will 
^ evident The remuneration obtained from one or two pupils will not 
Justify close attention and preparation, even if other duties would permit. 


Hence the student can receive little more than the mere name of reciting 
under a teacher. This must be the case under like circumstances any- 
where. Academies being wanting, and private instruction precarious, 
the pupU must depend in a great measure on his own eflFort for prepare 
tion. Imperfection resulting, the early course in CJollege will be embar- 
rassed, and passed over without the usual advantages. This must 
undoubtedly be looked upon as by far the greatest diflSculty with which 
Western Colleges have to contend. They receive students imperfectly 
fitted, and cannot fully remedy the defect. Another disadvantage whidi 
students are subjected to, is that they cannot be regular. In every 
new country, nearly all must labor at least part of the time. Farmezs' 
sons leave the plough to attend College one session, and then from study- 
ing, return to practice the " Georgics." These, however, are the evils of a 
particular period in the settlement of every country. Time and experience 
will cure them all. But in the face of such disadvantages, Western Col- 
leges have done, and are doing a good work. They furnish the means of a 
good education ; which, if not as complete and thorough in every instance 
as could be desired, are nevertheless as well adapted to the condition of 
the people as could be expected. They afford instruction cheap ; inmost 
instances the prices being scarcely half that in New England GollegeB. 
This, together with the general cheapness of living there, make the tenns 
of obtaining an education still more easy for the indigent. 

Considering all things, I believe that Western Colleges offer greater 
advantages, compared to expenses, than any other in our country. They 
have had to struggle with their greatest difficulties; the "middle 
passage" is over, and now they are placed on a more nearly equal foot- 
ing with their older sisters. It is questionable whether Yale or Harvard 
numbered as many Alumni in the first twenty years of their existence, 
as some new Colleges which could be specified. One thing is certain, 
their grade of scholarship for the same period was far below. Though 
our new seats of learning number Alumni as yet by hundreds, time will 
soon make them thousands, and their energy of character, combined with 
filial reverence for the young Mothers^ will make these the honw and 
pride of our country. c. b. 

1852.] VALENTINES. 183 


Messrs. Eduobs : — Although you will find nothing peculiar in the 
following correspondence — nothing which seems different from ordinary 
Valentines — ^I think you will agree with me that it is true to nature. 
How I came into possession of it is of no consequence ; nor is it any 
matter whether it is real or fictitious. But knowing as I do the circum- 
Btances under which it was written, I can say that it is the aim of the 
writer to hit off a certain practice common here in Yale, of correspond- 
ing with boarding school girls, whose acquaintance has been formed by 
means of the annual catalogues of the Institutions. Whether or not he 
has succeeded, you must be the judge. Believing you to be desirous of 
giving in your Magazine every phase of College life, with this explana- 
tion, I submit the correspondence to your consideration. x. 

Philadelphia, Feb. 14th, 1852. 

My Dear Mr. F ; 

Do you recollect meeting in the Cars while traveling last 
summer, a young lady just returning from boarding school ? Perhaps you 
do not — ^indeed it is more than probable that you do not — ^but I have 
never forgotten you. Your face, so long remembered, has been before 
me in the hours of gayety and sadness. When mingling with the home 
circle around the domestic hearth, or when joining in the witching dance, 
your face has been ever near to me, and I could not forget it. 

I know that it was wrong thus to indulge in dreams of the future — 
beautiful fancies — too bright, too joyous, to be ever realized ; but if you 
We ever felt a deep, a strong devotion, to any earthly object — if your 
soul has ever gone forth like the dove of old, and has found no object on 
which to rest itself — then, and then only, can you know and sympathize 
lu my feelings. 

You may think it strange that I should thus portray the feelings of 
Bay heart to one who judges himself a total stranger to me. You cannot 
think otherwise, but trusting to your generous nature, your manly heart, 
*ind relying on your generous nature, I venture to entrust to you those 
sentiments which have so long been buried in my heart. Forgive, but 
do not forget your own devoted Angelina. 

P. S. Direct to A. B. J , No. — - Chestnut St., Philadelphia. 

184 VALENTIKS8. [Maich, 

Yalk Collboe, Feb. 17th, 1852. 
My Dearest Angelina : 

" Do you not know who I am ?" " How in the world 
should I know who you are ?" " Why, sir, I am the Mayor of the City 
of New Haven." " Well, I don't care a hang." 

The foregoing confab, which took place between the worthy chief magis- 
trate of thiB city, and a short, chubby, jolly, frolicksome classmate of mine, 
on a certain night of a calliathump serenade, was brought veiy forcibly to 
my mind on perusing a valentine purporting to be from the person to 
whom this is addressed. I must, however, here mention that at the time 
of its reception, I was in no fit mood to be wooed and won — no, not even 
by Venus hersel£ Four hours of hard riding and tedious waiting at 
railroad stations, the day previous — a consequent tardiness at the vesper 
meal, exceedingly unusual for me, and almost amounting to that of the 
venerable Daniel Tucker, Esq., — ^highly interesting and even exatbg 
scenes far into the ' sma' hours' — a short allowance of sleep, and that 
frequently interrupted by a constant absence of caloric from my nether 
limbs — all this concatenation of heterogeneous circumstances, to which 
must be added the pleasing prospect of hot coffee and buttered rolls, had 
the effect to render me, at about fifteen minutes before eight this morn- 
ing, decidedly averse to any correspondence at all, and particularly to that 
of an amatory nature. Receiving your note then, under these conditions, 
I could not, as I rolled over in bed to peruse its contents, but bring to my 
mind the situation of my jolly classmate, to which allusion has been 
made. But as I lay there with my head resting on my elbows, in a 
meditative mood, I came to the conclusion that, as your postscript implies 
that you expect a reply, I would attempt one. In doing this I know of 
no better method than to take up the several topics and give you my 
views in respect to them. 

You ask, first — ^Do you recollect meeting in the cars, while traveling 
last summer, a young lady just returning from boarding school? In 
answer to this, your first inquiry, I have to say that I have no such 
recollection whatever — and, moreover, I would add that it is not my 
practice, when traveling, to be on the lookout for boarding-school misses 
going home to see their mammas. I have at times, it is true, gone down 
to the depot here in New Haven, when we have received intelligence 
from certain boarding-schools in Massachusetts that their vacation was 
about to commence, and that a bevy of feminines might be expected. 
But this, you will readily perceive, is a far different case. 

There is another point in this inquiry which I wish to notice. You do 
not particularize the place in which you were so fortunate as to catch the 

1852.] VALENTINES. 185 

first glimpse of my delectable countenance, nor do you mention any cir- 
cumstances of our meeting, by which I might recall that meeting to my 
memory. This leads me to think that you never did meet me at all, nor 
have ever heard of me except through the annual catalogue of the Collie ; 
or, perhaps, through newspaper notices of the many distinguished posts of 
honor which I have held during my stay here. I have also amother 
reason for believing that you have never seen me. li^ as you intimate, 
our only meeting was on the cars, how could you have known that the 
person you then saw bears the name which the envelope of your Val- 
entine does ? Possibly, however, you may have had the exquisite pleasure 
of gazing on my benign countenance, and have sufficient reason for re- 
fraining from mentioning any circumstances which would recall yours to 
me. You may be unwilling to inflict upon my mental vision any sight 
which would be unpleasant or disagreeable to me. For this you may 
have two reasons. You may fear that such a sight would be an antidote, 
as it were, to your letter, or you may be actuated by motives of the 
purest benevolence. In either case you are perfectly excusable. But I 
vould rather place the matter on a different footing and suppose that you 
are a damsel as fair as the Houris — for no other, I am sure, would have 
the audacity to fall in love with so handsome a young man as myself — 
and have been prevented from disclosing yourself more fully to me by 
that innate modesty which is so characteristic of your whole letter. 

You next speak of having my face constantly before your eyes. It is 
present at your going out and your coming in, at your lymg down and 
at your rising up. Well, I am very glad to hear that any one has been 
able to take my picture. Of late, several quite unsuccessful efforts at this 
very thing have been made. The art of Daguerre and also that of lith- 
ography have in vain been called into requisition for this purpose. Cupid 
it would seem by your statement has been more successful. Before leav- 
ing this part of your letter I would simply suggest to you the propriety 
of reciprocating this favor, for since you are in possession of my portrait 
it is no more than fair that I should be in possession of yours. 

You now go on to confess to the sinfulness of indulging in dreams of 
the future — ^beautiful fancies — too joyous to be ever realized you say. 
Bere are two facts which I am glad to find — ^first, that there is in your 
character a disposition to acknowledge your wrong doings ; and, second, 
tliat you have no expectation that your fond hopes will ever be realized. 
In this connection, too, you mention the only conditions on which I can 
sympathize with you. If these be, indeed, the only conditions then 
Burely I fear you will be deprived of the sympathy of him on whom your 
fondest hopes have centred ; for I can assure you that whenever I have 

VOL. XYIU. 24 

186 puoNOORAPHY. [March, 

pennitted my soul to go forth like the dove of old, it has found an ob- 
ject on which to rest itselfl I am sorry for your sake, that such is the 
case. I regret that you are thus deprived of my sympathy, for I think 
you greatly need it — but so it is — ^and under these circumstances, I can 
do nothing more for your so desperate case than offer for your consolation 
the good old maxim, "Ffiv av5 ^sag ir.^^ 

"You may think it strange," you say, "that I should thus portray the 
feelings of my heart to one who judges himself a total stranger to me." 
Not at all. I do not wonder that you venture to entrust to me those sen- 
timents which have so long been buried in your bosom. It is perfectly 
natural for the spell-bound songster of the forest when the fascinations 
of its charmer have become irresistible, to fly to its deadly embrace. 
Tou speak here of my generous nature, my manly heart and my honor. 
Now I beg leave to ask how do you know that I have a generous nature, 
a manly heart, or any honor at all. For aught you know to the contrary, 
I may be possessed of a nature as ungenerous as that of a Shylock, a 
heart as wanting in manliness as that of an lago — or I may be as des- 
titute of honor as a Judas. Yet as it is truly said that guessing is as 
good as anything when one guesses right, we will let this pass. 

Your closing prayer, "Forgive, but do not forget," I will surely grant 
The former part, were it neither leap year nor St, Valentine's day, I 
should grant, for I was always taught to forgive others their trespasses. 
In regard to the latter, I am sure I shall never forget you, for I believe 
it is universally held that a person can never forget what he never knew. 

With sentiments of peculiar regard, and affections the natural results 
of our mutual acquaintance, 

I remain. Yours, as ever, 

J. L. F— . 


The writing and printing reformation naturally divides itself into two 
branches. Phonography and Phonotypy. Phonography is something 
which may be of immediate utility to us as young men who will here- 
after make much use of the pen, but Phonotypy, that is, printing by 
sounds, would engage us, chiefly as an improvement which may confer 
an immense benefit on following generations. While the phonetic prin- 
ciple has been accepted, as the foundation of a correct orthography by 

1852.] PHONOGRAPHr, 187 

eminent men, among whom are Dr. Benjamin Franklin, Sir William 
Jones and Bishop Wilkins ; and a committee of the American Academy 
of Arts and Sciences,* there has not yet, we believe, been established 
a system of phony typic characters upon which all the friends of the 
reform could unite as a permanent basis. For these reasons we will con- 
fine our notice to the single subject of Phonography which alone is in- 
viting and ample enough. However, the claims of Phonography to be a 
philosophical scheme of the largest scope and most benficent intention, 
may be received, it is undeniably an art of great convenience. What- 
ever multiplies the power of the pen ^ve fold and multiplies thus much 
the utility of an art so variously applied deserves consideration for its 
every day benefits, if it is denied respect as a^cience. 

The capability of Phonography to do the oflSces of ordinary writing, 
in correspondence, in book-keeping, in authorship, and to do them with 
manifold speed and with entire legibility, is not merely theory. At this 
moment voluminous letters are passing which were written almost with 
the rapidity of utterance ; editors dre throwing off articles with a speed 
and comfort which were unknown by the tedious process of the old 
script ; clergymen are penning their sermons without that manual labor 
which renders the compositon of forty pages per week so irksome ; lawyers 
take down the words of witness with a new facility ; authors save two 
thirds of their valuable time by dictating to phonographic amanuenses, 
while all over the country the wit and wisdom and eloquence of lecturers 
and statesmen are gathered up, with an ease, accuracy and cheapness 
which were not known before. 

But we do not demand that Phonography be accepted as a substitute 
for the hand-writing in general use, until it is shown that our orthogra- 
phy is essentially vicious and that the phonetic principle is philosophic- 
ally correct ; and if these are admitted there is no question that Phono- 
graphy as writing is superior to, and ought to supercede, any chirography 
now in vogue. 

The change to Phonetic spelling is indeed a radical one, but I appre- 
hend it is only a return to the original idea of written language. The 
English has widely departed from that idea, so that by reason of the va- 
riations in pronunciation whereby letters which were once enunciated are 
now silent, by the introduction of foreign words spelled on the princi- 
ple of foreign languages and especially by reason of the inadequacy of 
the characters to represent the elementary sounds, in consequence of 
whjph many of the letters have various powers and are formed into nu- 

* Report on Phonotypy, Aug. 12, 1846. 

188 PHONOQRAPHT. [March, 

merouB combinations to represent the same simple sounds, our orthognr 
phy has come at this time to be governed by such anomalous, recondite 
and arbitrary rules as encumber no other science. There must be a re- 
form, or millions of children who will speak our tongue, must undergo 
the useless labor of mastering the irregularities before they possess the 
key to the knowledge which is in books, and millions more will find 
reading and writing unattainable. Rapp, in the Physiologic der Sprachs 
says of the English that it has acquired ^^ an incomparable fluency, and 
appears especially adapted by nature, more than any one of the living, 
to undertake the part of the universal tongue out of Europe. Were not 
the impediment of a bizarre, antiquated orthography in the way, ib» 
universaUty of the Iskngudj^ would be more apparent ; and it may, pe^ 
haps, be said to be fortunate for us other Europeans, that the Enghshman 
has not made the discovery."* Obviously in any reform proposed, 
words should be spelled as they are pronounced and not differently, tlut 
is, an alphabet should be derived from a thorough analysis of the lan- 
guage, which would furnish a single \iharacter to express unambiguously 
each separate sound, and a word should be represented by the succession 
of letters which represent the different sounds of which the whole pro* 
nunciation is made up. Such an alphabet would embrace about thirty- 
six letters for simple sounds and six or seven for compound sounds fiv 
which it is desirable to have characters. This system is phonetic. 

But is the writing system which has .been formed upon this prin- 
ciple scientific, and does it unite in the highest degree the qualities d 
simplicity, brevity and legibility ? We cannot give here a full deecrip- 
tion of phonography, nor has the printer the type to illustrate an ex- 
planation. In general terms we may say, the consonants and the vowels 
are separately classed — the consonant skeleton of the word is written 
connectedly and the vowels are afterwards appended, as in the Hebrew. 
The consonant outlines unite in convenient and elegant forms and 
can be contracted under a few simple rules, so that the briefer the sign 
the more it expresses. A single stroke of the pen often makes a syllable 
or a word. Phonography here appears in advantageous contrast with 
the old writing which requires from two to seven motions of the 
hand for every letter, and when we remember that in almost every word 
there are superfluous letters, we see how it is that Phonography is so ex- 
peditious and long hand so cumbersome ; that while the one follows with 
delightful activity the words of a speaker — the other tranmiels "our 

living flocks of thought as they trudge it slowly and wearily down the fen 

-— ^ . ik , 


* Quoted in American Academy's Report on Phoopgrapby. 

1852.] PHONOGBAFHY. 189 

and along the paper hindermg each other as they struggle through the 
straight gate of the old hand writing.'' 

b Phonography as in the Hebrew an experienced reader will dispense 
fcr the most part with the vowel signs. It is even easier to do without 
them, for the eye is not embarrassed by so complicated a form. Brev- 
Tity is further obtained by the use of word-signs, which are parts of 
words taken to represent its whole. They are established by usage and 
nther assist legibility, than otherwise. 

In practice this system is found to be entirely natural. This would 
be expected from the manner in •which it was formed. It was not 
compounded of the heterogeneous remains of incongruous alphabets, 
with too many letters for some sounds and none for others — ^but begin- 
ning de novo with an analysis of the language and of simple mathemat- 
ical figures it assigned to the most frequent sounds the most simple and 
convenient symbols, always accomplishing a result with the least manual 
labor, so that legibility was not sacrificed. 

This art has many friends in college, a few of them expert in using it, 
and more wishing for the skill to daguerreotype the flowing words of 
the speaker, without putting forth the effort to acquire it. For our- 
B^ves this has been a pleasant task. The philosophical simplicity and 
the large results made it as fascinating as poetry ; and now when it is 
to some degree our own, and novelty has been worn off by possession, a 
more sober view of its advantages does not diminish our estimation of 
its value. Lifting our contemplation from its hooks, dots and circles , 
we may indulge the imagination with a pleasing prospect of its utilities ; 
we may expect that the art which bestows additional power on writing ; 
tile great instrument of business, the solace of friendship, the vehicle 
to authors, will exert on human affairs an influence something like print- 
ing, if not as great, yet certainly as happy. 


f iterarj) ^^otice. 

American Whig Review. Published Monthly by Champion Bissell, t 

Nassau Street, New York. 

The name of the present publisher of this well-known Review is that of 
acquaintance, a College friend, and what is more — a frequent contributor, h 
gone by, to the pages of our own Magazine. He was one of the good ol 
who wrote well, wrote frequently, and paid his aubaeription promptly ^ — 8< 
as in duty bound, we cordially wish success to ** C. B." of the Class of 1860 

The Review has for its primary object the support of the known prio 
measures and men of the united Whig party, and as such has been cordiall; 
mended by Webster, Choate, Winthrop, Butler King, and a score of others, 
number is embellished with a portrait of some eminent member of that paHj 
in connection with a biographical sketch. The March number, for instance, 
happens to be before us, has a portrait of the Hon. Wm. A. Graham, the Sec 
of the Navy. 

But although Politics is the main concern of the Whig Review, late 
receives no little attention. Indeed, in the last number, quite as many of tli 
cles were suited to the general as to the merely political reader. Such ai 
pieces on the " American Drama,*' " Female Poets," and " Traditions of Tenoi 

We acknowledge that we feel some pride in seeing one who was so re 
among us, engaged as the conductor of so able a RdKew, and we doubt nc 
those who knew him here, will be glad to pass the word as to his present pc 
and perhaps send him their own names as paying subscribers. We presnoi 
such subscrit)ers are quite as acceptable in New York, if not as rare, as they 
New Haven— to the Whig Review as to the Yale Literary. Those who do n< 
want a political Review may be glad of one when they are out of College, i 
such Yalensians, the one which is before us especially commends itself, 1 
originated with the lamented Colton of the Class of 1840, and being now con* 
by another graduate of Yale. Our recommendation of its ability is quite ui 
sary, after the praises it has received from the Statesmen named above. 

iHemorabUia |Jakn0ia. 


In our last number we published a list of the Berkeleian Scholars, with th< 
ment that, owing to the loss of the original record, the work was wholly one 
toration ; and as we had, to depend upon the personal recollection of individi 
facts, dating back sixty years or more, it was stated that the list was probably 
feet Since then the missing record, which had hitherto resisted all search, hi 
accidentally discovered, and as it is desirable that the corrections should be n 
once, we publish the whole list in the present number, in its corrected apt 
plete fonn. Thia ancient document, in addition to this information, oontaini 




latter relative to the Berkeleian Fund of an interesting nature. There is record- 
i in it a complete list of all who have received the premiums for Latin composi- 
OQ, to the close of tl^e last century. The autograph signatures of those who have 
iceiyed the fund, both for scholarships and the smaller premiums, dating from 
183, add to the interest of the records. There is also a memorandum made bj 
resident Stiles, by which it seems that the farm in Rhode Island was leased in the 
» 1769 for the term of 999 years ; with the annual rent of 100 oz. of silver until 
[89, thence to 1810 for 126 oz. of silver, and thence to the end of the term for 
lObashels of wheat ; this has since been commuted for the payment of 140 dollars. 












Rev. Benjamin Pomeroy, D. D. 
Rev. Eleazar Wheelock,I).D., Pr«8. 

Dart. Colt. 
Benjamin Nicoll. 

WQliam Wolcott, Tutor Yale Coll. 
Rev. Aaron Burr, Prea, Coll. New 

Rev. James Lockwood, Tat. Y. C. 
Elisha Williams. 
Samuel Williams. 
Rev. Nathan Birdseye. 
Rev. Silas Leonard. 
Rev. Mark Leavenworth. 
Rev. Gideon Mills. 
Hon. Phinehas Lyman, Tvi. Y. C. 
Rev. Chauncey Whittlesey, TtU. Y. 

Solomon Welles. 
WDliam Williams. 
Rev. Jacob Johnson. 
Hon. John Worthington, LL. D., 

Tut&r Yale Coll 
Rev. Richard Mansfield, D. D. 
Rev. Noah Welles, D. D., Tut. Yale 

Jared Ingersoll. 
Rev. Thomas Arthur. 
Hon. Wm. Sam'l Johnson, LL. D., 

Jttdge Sup. Ct. of Conn., Hep. 

and Sen. U. S. Cong.^ Pres. Col. 

Rev. Warham Williams, Tut. Yale 

ThaddeusBetts, M. D. 
Rev. Jonathan Colton. 
Rev. Pelatiah Webster. 
Rev. Aaron Hutchinson. 
Rev. Naphtali Daggett, D.D., Pres. 

Yale Coll. 
Rev. William Johnson. 
HoiL James Abraham Hillhouse, 

Tutor Yale Coll. 
Elihu Tudor, M. D. 
Rev. Judah Champion. 
Hemy Babcock. 
Gurdoa Saltonstall. 

1763. Rev. Seth Pomeroy, Tut. Y. C. 
James Usher. 

1764. Rev. John Devotion. 
Rev. Justus Forward. 

1766. Rev. Luke Babcock. 
Moses Bliss. 

Rev. Nehemiah Strong, Tutor and 
Prof. Yale Coll. 

1766. Robert Breck. 

Hon. Simeon Strong, LL. D., Judge 
Sup. Ct. Mass. 

1767. Hon. Edmund Fanning, LL. D. 

Gov. Pr. Edw. Is. 
Hon. Titus Hosmer, Rep. U. S, 

Rev. Noah Williston, 
Rev. Benjamin Boardman, T-ut. Y. C. 
Hon. Silas Deane, Rep, U. S. Cong., 

Minister to FVance, 
Rev. Roger Viets. 
Rev. Enoch Huntington. 
Alexander King. 
Jesse Leavenworth. 
Rev. Matthew Merriam. 
Rev. Levi Hart, D. D. 
Woodbridge Little. 
Rev. Ebenezer Russell White, Tu- 
tor Yale Coll. 
Hadlock Marcy. 
Rev. Theodore Hinsdale. 
Rev. Joseph Huntington, D. D. 
William Jones. 

Rev. Ebenezer Baldwin, Tut. Y. C. 
Amos Botsford, Tutor Yale Coll. 
Hon. Stephen Mix Mitchell, LL. D., 

Tut, Yale Coll., Rep. and Sen. 

U. S. C(mg., Ch. Judge Sup. Ct 

of Conn. 
1764. Rev. Samuel Camp. 

Rev. Diodate Johnson, TSU. Y. C, 
Chauncey Whittlesey. 
1766. Roswell Grant. 

Rev. Joseph Howe, Tnt. Y. C. 
1766. Hon. Jonathan Ingersoll, LL. D. 

Judge Sup. Ct., and Lt, Gov. of 









1767. Rev. Joseph Lyman D. D. 

Hon. John Treadwell, LL. D. Ow. 

of Conn, 
Hon. John Trumball, LL. D., Tut. 

Y. C, Judge Sup, Court Cofin. 
Rev. Samuel Wales, D. D., TWor 

and Prof. Yale Coll. 

1768. Rev. Amzi Lewis. 
Josiuh Norton. 
Rev. Elijah Parsons. 
Rev. Seth Sage. 
Buckingham St. John. Tut. Y. C. 

1769. Rev. Timothy Dwight^D.D^ LL.D. 

Tutor, Prof and Free, of Y. C, 
Rev. John Keep. 
Rev. William Seward. 

1770. Rev. Joseph Buckminister, D. D., 

Tutor Yale Coll. 
Hon. John Davenport, Tutor Yale 

Coll., Rep. U. S. Cong. 
Rev. Solomon Williams, 2W. Y. C. 

1771. John Hart. 
Sylvester Muirson. 
Joseph Woodbridge. 

1772. Hon. Abraham Baldwin, Tut. Y. C. 

Pret. Univ. Oeo., Rep. and Sen. 
U. 8. Cong. 
Thomas Canfield. 
Rev. Joseph Strong, D. D. 
1778. Roger Alden. 

Rev. William Robmson, Tut. Yale 

Rev. Ezra Sampson. 
1774. Amos Benedict. 
Jared Bostwick. 
Rev. Reuben Holcomb. 
1776. Hon. Samuel Whittelsey Dana, 
Rep. and Sen. U. 8. Cong. 
Rev. Solomon Reed. 
Benjamin Welles. 

1776. Hon. Chauncey Goodrich, Tutor 

Yale Coll., Rep. ds Senator U. 

8. Cong., Lt. Gov. of Conn. 
Daniel Lyman. 
William Andrew RusselL 

1777. Dudley Baldwin, 
William Hillhouse. 

1778. Abraham Bishop. 
Ebenezer Daggett. 

Rev. Frederick William Hotchkiss. 

1779. Hon. Jeremiah Gates Brainard, 

Judge 8up. Ct.of Conn. 
Hon. Elizur Goodrich, LL. D., Tu- 

tor and Prof of Yale Coll., Rep. 

U. 8. Cong. 
Rev. Zebulou Ely, Tut<yr Yale Coll. 

1780. Oliver Lewis. 

Rev. John Robinson. 

1781. Rev. Henry Channing, 7W. F. a 
Enoch Perkins, TuIot Yaie Coll, 

1782. {yone.) 

1788. Rev. Samuel Aiutiii, D. 
Univ. Vt. 
Rev. Jonathan Fuller. 
Rev. Abiel Holmes, D. 

Yale Coll 
Charles White. 

1784. Ralph Isaacs. 

1785. Enoch Huntington. 
Hon. Barnabas Bidwell, 

Tut. Y.C.,Rep. U.8.^ 
Enos Cook. 

Roger Newton, Tut. Y. ( 
Samuel Perkins. 

1786. Rev. John Elliot, D.D. 
Hon. Thomas Ruggles G 

U 8. Cong. 
Hon. Stanley Griswold,^ 

5. Cong. 
Rev. Reuben Hitchcock. 
Rev. William Stone. 

1787. Roswell Judson. 

1788. Zachariah Tomlinson. 
Hon. John Woodworthg 

Judge Sup. Ct. of Neu 

1789. Rev. Dan Bradley. 
Rev. William Brown. 
Jona. Walter Edwards, T 

1790. Thomas Mumford. 

1791. Barzillai Slosson. 

Hon. Josiah Stebbins, Jht 

1792. Rev. Timothy Mather Oo« 
Rev. Isaac Jones. 
Nathaniel King. 

1798. Rev. Jeremiah Atwater,] 
Y. C, Pren. Mid. db L 
1794. Stephen Mix Mitchell 
1796. Ebenezer Grant Marsh, 
Hebr. Inst. Y. C. 

1796. (None.) 

1797. Rev. Ira Hart. 

Rev. James Murdock, D. 
Univ. Vt. and And. 27 

1798. James Burnet. 
Daniel Fuller. 

1799. Benjamin Woolsey Dwig 
Rev. Ezekiel Jones Chaf 

1800. Samuel Gray Huntington 
Abiram Stoddard. 
Chauncey Whittlesey. 

1801. Isaac Baldwin. 
Alcis Evelyn Hart 

1802. Hon. Jesup Nash Coa( 

Sup. Ct. Ohio. 
Rev. William Lightbomn 
1808. Rev. Sereno Edwards Dwi 
Tut. Y. C, Pre9, Mam. 
Rev. Noah Porter, D. D. 
Rev. Henry Sherman. 
Rev. Hosea Beckley. 




1804. Bey. John Marsh. 


1805. Ziba Foot. 

1806. Alfred Hennen. 

Hon. Henry Strong, LL. 1)., Tutor 


Yale Coll. 

Rev. Hezekiah Gold Ufford. 

1807. (None.) 


1808. (None.) 


1809. (None.) 


1810. (None.) 


1811. (None.) 


1812. (Norie.) 

1818. Rev. William Theodore Dwight, 


D.D.,Tat. r. a 


18U. Rev. John Dickson. 


Rev. Joshua Leavitt. 


1815. (Nofie.) 

1816. George Hill. 


Charles Olcott. 

Rev. James Angel Fox. 


Charles John Johnson. 


1817. Hon. Joel Jones, LL. D., Fres. Gir. 




David Nevins Lord. 

1818. Hon. Francis Hiram Cone, Judge 


Sup. at. Geo. 


Horatio Hubbell. 


Hon. Thomas Clap Perkins. 


1819. Jonathan Humphrey Bissell. 

Hon. Asahel Huntmgton. 

1820. Horace Foote. 


Alexander Catlin Twining, Tut. F. 


a. Prof. Mid. Coll. 

John Payson Williston. 


1821. Henry White, Tut. Y. C. 

1822. Rev. Edward Beecher.D. D., Tut. 


Y. a, Pres. 111. Coll. 


Rev. Henry Herrick. 


1823. Rev. Ncrman Pinney, Prof. Trin. 




William Moseley Holland, 7W. Y 

a, Prof. Trin, Coll 
Hon. Ashbel Smith, M. D. 
Josiah Barnes, M. D. 
Hon. Thomas Slidell, Judge Sup, 

Ct. of La, 
Rev. John Phelps Cowles. 
Sidney Law Johnson. 

George Champlin Tenney. 
Hon. Edmund Smith Rhett 
Henry Rogers Winthrop. 



Hon. Henry William Ellsworth. 
Henry Ooit Kingsley. 
Charles Alonzo Gager, 7W. Y<jUe 

Rev. William Russell. 

Charles Astor Bristed. 
Augustus Rodney MacDonough. 


William Davison Hennen. 
Rev. Cyrus Huntington. 
Lucius Franklin Robinson. 
Franklin Taylor. 
William Few Smith. 
William Gustine Conner. 
Robert Rankin. 

Henry Hamilton Hadley, 7W. Y.C. 
Francis Lewis Hodges, Tut, Y, 6'. 
Henry Martyn Colton. 
Benjamin Talbot. 
Clinton Camp. 
William Woolsey Winthrop. 


We alluded in our last December number to the interest which had been mani- 
fested among the Students for the cause of Hungary. Two meetings were held 
in the Chapel, near the close of last term, at the first of which a Committee was 
appointed to draft, in behalf of the Students generally, an Address to Governor 
Kossuth, — and at the second, the following Address, presented by that Committee, 
was read and approved. 


Gov. Kossuth : The students connected with Yale College, have assigned to us 
the pleasing duty of expressing to you their deep and earnest sympathy with the 
cause of Hungarian independence. As young men, assembled together from every 

VOL. XVU. 2o 


section of our country, accustomed in our earliest recollections to a union of Liberty 
and Law, and claiming affinity with the men who pledged their " lives, their for- 
tunes, and their sacred honor," we may well be supposed to share your abhoneoce 
of systematic perfidy, oppression and absolutism, as exemplified by the House of 
Hapsburg and the Czar of Russia. And it has seemed to us that it might afford 
some satisfaction to yourself, and to your oppressed brethren in Europe, to receive 
from us, as American students, some indication of that sympathy and that abhor- 
rence, and to allow us to express our honest admiration of the strength and persist- 
ent energy of your people, and the purity of their motives, but above all the sanc- 
tity and the value of the principles which they have proclaimed. This enthusiasm 
in regard to the constitutional liberty of Hungary is not altogether new among us. 
Our elder brethren, the graduates of this College, at their annual meeting held two 
years ago, discussed, with great spirit, and adopted with entire unanimity, a series 
of resolutions expressing deep and prayerful sympathy with your gallant but unfor- 
tunate countrymen. They were among the first expressions of the kind emanating 
from any association of American*, and were advocated by men of learning, piety, 
and statesmanlike views, with an eloquence that has made the cause of Hungary 
and the Hungarians forever dear to us. One of our number (Charles L. Brace) 
has lately be^n traveling through the villages and hamlets of your fatherland, and 
has given us much information of the private virtues of your people, their suffer- 
ings, and their glimmerings of hope, as well as the absolute tyranny and demoniac 
fury of their oppressors, on which he had abundant opportunity to reflect in an 
Austrian dungeon. We are proud to welcome you as a great teacher ; not only as 
a teacher who has already taught the people their rights, and how to secure those 
rights by proper guarantees, but also as a teacher who has endeavored to make 
tyrants understand their duties — a lesson hard for them to comprehend, but which 
they will thoroughly learn, if at all, when it is demonstrated by the point of the 

A want of popular traditions and of a definite knowledge of facts among the 
people, and a difficulty in obtaining them hitherto, on account of a diversity of 
language and the jealousy of despots, the distances and peculiar geographical sito- 
ation of Hungary, the caution and hesitancy with which we naturally receive state- 
ments ex parte, render it comparatively easy for the emissaries of Austria to throv 
suspicion on a cause they hate, and to endeavor to prevent its taking such a deep 
vital hold on c^ur minds and hearts as will remain with us and prompt to deeds long 
after you and your companions shall have withdrawn to the conflict, and this excite- 
ment shall have passed away. Your presence on our soil excites inquiry— your 
words assist the investigation and inspire confidence — ^your eloquence has awakened 
the most glowing enthusiasm. We hope that an intelligent and thorough coDTio* 
tion will be left on the great heart of the American people, that the cause of Hod- 
gary is the cause of God — that it is an honest effort of the great body of your 
people to escape from an ignominious tyranny and oppression Vhich they can do 
longer endure ; and finally, that we can do something as American citizens, without 
becoming embroiled as a nation in a European war. 

The ** sober second thought" of the people will soon be matured, and their dis- 
passionate judgment pronounced. We need not say that we believe that thought 
and that judgment will be for Hungary and for Independence ; then whatever course 
priidence may dictate to the Government, toe will not only say as our fathers did to 


le Patriots of Greece, 5* iJtod speed the right," but will do as they did, and will give 
stive €ffici.ent pecuriiary aid accijrdiug to our ability. 

Signed in behalf of the Students of Yale College. 

Theological Department — E. B. Hillabd, Conn., C. J. Hutchins, Penn. 

Law Department — Joseph Sheldon, Jr., N. Y. ; R. M. Marshall, Ky. 

Medical Department — ^James H. Curey, N. Y. ; Charles A. Lindbley, N. J. 

Philosophical Department — A. R. Little, R. I. ; J. D. Easter, Md. 

Undergraduates — Senior Class: Homer B. Spragub, Mass.; Wm. Stanley, Ot. 
Wors: Randal L. Gibson, La.; Chas. L. Thomas, IIL Sophomores: M. Leb 
diss. ; A. S. Van de Graaff, Ala. Freshmen : W. King, Ga. ; W. S. Heath, Me. 

By a vote of the meeting, the Committee were requested to go down to New 
fork and present the Address to Kossuth. They were accordingly introduced to 
limat New York, on the 16th of December, by Wm. E. Robinson, Esq., of the 
Olass of 1841, and after they had read their Address, Gov. Kossutli made the fol- 
lowing reply, which we take from the New York Tribune. 

Kossuth's reply. 

Allow me, Gentlemen, to express to you my most cordial and warmest thanks for 
this manifestation of your sympathy. The fact that young America sympathizes 
with the struggles of every people for the purpose of becoming free, is not new to 
me; but it is a great benefit to see that sympathy sanctioned always by that higher 
instruction which your condition affords to you. I consider that the principles which 
should actuate the human heart should be based upon a love of freedom, sanction- 
ed by the religion and understanding of man. It affords me a great gratification to 
receive the kind wishes and practical aid of so great a number of the youths of 
your College — some five hundred, from twenty-six States of this Union. 

There is so much talk about the peaceful advancement of freedom throughout 
the world — so much spoken about the certainty of success by peaceful means, that 
I consider it my duty to set people's minds right on the subject. It would be a 
ftrnd thing to come to some rational end by peaceful means, but so long as tyrants 
ixist, this can hardly be accomplished. The word tyrant is inconsistent with the 
^ord duty. They feel that the world was created to be th^ tool of their ambition, 
•nd therefore, they feel no duty beyond the satisfying of their desires. The bayo- 
ets of tyrants listen not to justice nor to reason, nor to the prayers of suffering 
Ian. So, of course, you must oppose bayonets to bayonets, and that is my doctrine, 
doctrine which I will not only teach, but feel as a duty in my inmost heart to 
dvocate and share in the danger, when the condition of my country requires it. 
jad 80 much I know, that when I raise in Hungary the banner of freedom, and 
hen I go on, the first in danger, there will be there no coward heart that will 
ifiue to follow. Everything promises the assurance of success for the cause you 
jDor with your sympathy, and I say that my nation by itself, by its own resolu- 
on and manly action, will be able to battle for her liberty. 
It is a mistake, however, if anybody thinks that I came to the United States for 
le purpose of getting means to carry on a war. This is not my design. I believe 
lat when war comes, Hungary will find in itself sufficient means to carry it out, 
at to meet the exigencies of the occasion, other things are wanting, not merelj 
nnpathy, but practical aid. Whatever assistance is afforded me, I will never 
nploj it in such a way that will be considertd contrary to the laws of tins country. 


I thank 7011, Gentlemen, for jour generous intention to give jour share of thst 
aid, which is wanted for the success of jour cause. I would have felt yefj happy 
to spend more time in jour companj, but I am sick and worn out bj the verj agree- 
able duties which I had to perform. To-daj I have the honor to meet the New 
Tork Militia, and mj time is so taken up, that I can scarc«lj afford a moment for 
mj private af&iirs. You will excuse me, therefore, Gentlemen, and receive my most 
cordial thanks. 

Mr. Hillard, the Chairman of the Committee, then expressed to Eossnth the 
pleasure thej had taken in this interview ; and after personal introductions to him, 
thej retired. 


The class of 1853, on Wednesdaj, Feb. 18, held their meeting for the election of 
Editors of the Yale Literarj Magazine. T. F. Davies was appointed Chairman, and 
A. W. Bishop and W. S. Gilbert, Secretaries. On balloting, the following gentle- 
men were declared elected : — 

Alfred Grout, Sherburne, Mass. 
GsoROE A. J0UN80.V, Salisbury, Md, 
Charlton T. Lewis, West Chester^ Pa, 
Benjamin K. Phelps, Groton, Mass, 
Andrew D. White, Syracuse, N Y, 



• Class of 1864. 

\st Division. 2d Division. Sd Division, 

lit Prize, Yuno Wing, L. S. Potwine, J. Tait. 

Zd Prize, 0. ADupee, W. C.Flagg, J. K Lombad. 


Class o/" 1866. 
Ist Division. 2d Division. Sd Division. 

Ist Prize, W. H. L. Barnes, 0. J. F. Allen, | J* |- 1^^' 

oj » • a oi -nr^^^^r.-wv S ^' Brooks, ( G. Talcjott, 

2d Prize, S. T. Woodward, ^ ^ Halstea;, \ J. R Todd. 

Zd Prize, H. N.Cobb, W.T.Wilson, jw.^;^^^** 

poems and orations. 
On Wednesdaj evening, Februarj 18, a Poem was delivered in the Brothers So* 
ciet J, bj W. W. Crapo of the Senior Class. Subject — Rebecoa the Jewess. 

On Wednesdaj evening, Februarj 26, a Poem was delivered in the Linooisn So* 
cietj bj W. S. Potts of the Sophomore Class. Subject — Wyominq. 

On the same evening, in the same Sodetj, Andrew D. White delivered an Ortr 
tion on Populae Fallagus about TqyoRim. 


>D Wednesday eveDing, March lltb, an Oration was delivered in the Brothers 
ietj, by Alfred Grout Subject — The Elements of Stumstkioal Cha&aoteb. 


he Fourth election of the Collegiate year, took place on Wednesday evening, 
. 26, in the three Societies, resulting as follows : 


G. G. Sill. C. E. Vanderburg. F. Geube. 

Vice Presidents, 
M. Smith. S. C. Chapin. Y. Marmaduke. 

C. L. Thomas. W. T. Gilbert. J. Olds. 

Vice Secretaries. 
J. K. Hill. H. E. Howland. J. E. Rains. 

It a special meeting of the Senior members of the Brothers in Unity, held March 

h, Cook Lounsbury was elected to deliver the usual Society Valedictory. 

U a special meeting of the Senior members of Calliope, held March 18th, Vincent 

RMADUKE was choseu to deliver the Society Valedictory. 

\.t a special meeting of the Senior members of Linonia, held March 20th, Will- 

[ F. Humphrey was chosen to deliver the Society Valedictory. 


rhis Society gave a Concert in the College Chapel, Monday evenmg, March 8th. 

e writer not having been present, (no disrespect by the way to the officers who so 

kdly remembered ' gentlemen of the press,') cannot speak personally of its merits. 

:mor however says it was good, very good, one of the best the Society has ever 

'60. The attendance however was not so great as was anticipated, or as the rcpu- 

ioQ of the Society ought to have commanded. Fewer students were present than 

ire should have been at a College Concert, by a Society whose claims on their 

tronage is great, and which does so much 

" whistling to the steeds of Time, 

To make them jog on merrily with life's harden." 


The speakers at the Junior Exhibition, which occurs this year on the 13th of 
pril, have made choice of the following 


1st Division, 2d Division, Zd Division. 

H. H. Babcock, W. H. Gleason, T. F. Davies. 

S. M. Capron, J. MoCoRMicK, S. W. Knevals. 

T. J. Holmes. B. K Phelps. J. M. Whiton. 

In alluding to this subject, we cannot forbear to express the wish, that year by 
^, as the Exhibition returns, more of the students would remain in town in or- 
^ to attend it than have usually been willing to do so. This hurrying off at the 
irlieit moment after Examination is concluded, as if sheriff's writs or college ' condi- 


lions' would otherwise overtake the students, is a sad inteferenco with the collegiate 
character of the audience who attend upon the Exhibition. A stranger whosbooid 
happen in and find so few of the students present as there generally are, would 
think * our college pride,' our * Yalensian spirit* was sadlj wanting. 

Moreover, the speakers, year aft«r year, whatever disappointed Juniors or mem- 
bers of the other classes say, have a claim on the sympathy and attendance of their 
fellow students ; and any man who has the true fraternal, whole-souled feeliog to- 
wards his comrades, which is one of the glories of college life, ought cheerfully to 
acknowledge this fact. The speakers at least for some years past, aware that meet 
of the audience would be comparative strangers to the class, and know them mere- 
ly by the names they see upon the schemes, have not had half the stimulus to 
exertion which they would have had, before an assembly of those who were their 
personal acquaintances. 

With regard to the exercises this year, we are looking for a ' Great ExhibitioD.' 
Many of the app)ointee8 have already distinguished themselves in college as writers 
and speakers, and many more arc prepared to do so upon the momentous occasioD 
before them. The music, too, will be very attractive, for the ' powers that be' hav- 
ing prohibited the procuring of musicians from out of town, the managers have se- 
cured the services of a Glee Club composed of some graduate and undergraduate 
members of the Beethoven Society and certain other gentlemen resident in New 
Haven. Vocal music of high order, — with overtures and accompaniments upon the 
Organ, by the inimitable Wilcox, — may accordingly be expected. 


The annual meeting of this Society was held on Monday evening, March 8th, in 
the College Chapel, President Woolsey presiding. As the organization of this So- 
ciety is somewhat peculiar in its nature, we will state concisely what that organiza- 
tion is. It is customary for the friends of temperance in each class as it enters 
college to form for themselves an independent Society, having a constitution andof- 
ficers of its own. The four class societies thus formed constitute a College Society 
called the " Yale Temperance Society," having another but not dissimilar constitu- 
tion, and for its ofiicers as follows : The President of the College, the Presidents of 
the Senior, Junior, Sophomore, and Freshman Societies are respectively President, 
Vice President, Corresponding Secretary, Recording Secretary and Treasurer, «? 
officio of the College Society. This body holds one meeting a year, at some con- 
venient time during the second term, when a lecturer is procured from abroad. I^ 
is this annual meeting which we briefly report. 

The exercises of the evening were commenced by the singing of a Temperance 
ode by the Beethoven Society. Prayer was then offered by Rev. Dr. Bacon, fol- 
lowing which was another song. The annual report of the State of the Temper- 
ance cause in College was next read by the Vice President. Much credit is due to 
this officer for the faithful discharge of his duty, and if many of the dram drinkers 
of Yale were surprised to find their practices so generally known, it is their own 
fault, for they ought to have been aware of the fact mentioned in the report that 
< drinking here is not carried on wholly in a comer.' They should bear in D^i^^ 
also, that where it is the almost oniveraal custom for a student to mak« his sprees • 
boasting matter, (and that too, in the presence of a mixed oompanj,) it is but itt^ 

52.] editor's table. 199 

d that they should be universally known. So it will be seen that the report of 
Vice President is not, as some^have supposed, the result of any Paul Pryism, 
; the carefully collecting and fearlessly stating of well-know facts, 
ifter the reading of this report the attention of the audience was invited to an 
dress by Rev. Calvin E. Stowb, D. D., Professor of Theology in Bowdoin College. 
fl Address was what we should call a good, sound, common sense temperance 
ture. Its aim was not to please but to convince, though in doing the latter the 
ner was accomplished. The. speaker was particularly happy in the use of his sto- 
i. These were not lugged in according to the too common practice of popular speak- 
for the sole purpose of raising a laugh — but were introduced only to enforce an 
lament or illustrate a truth. The lecture could not be called witty, though at 
les it was so — and, with the exception of the first part, through it all ran a* vein 
humor, pleasing while it did not clog. The Maine Law was noticed, its practical 
rkiogs shown, and its acceptability to the citizens of Maine made fully manifest, 
lile we were in general well pleased with the address, there was one feature to 
ichwe take exception. There was a tendency on the part of the speaker to over- 
te the evils resulting from intemperance. One instance in particular we remem- 
'. It was stated that all the steamboat explosions on the Western waters and 
the railroad accidents throughout the country are to be attributed either directly 
bdirectly to the use of intoxicating liquors. This statement we believe to be 
irdrawn, and although in the majority of these cases rum is the cause, still it is 
dent that railroad and steamboat accidents do sometimes happen without the 
3Dcy of King Alcohol Then so long as there is one case in a year which is not 
iasioned by the use of ardent spirits the statement is untrue. We cannot think 
tt any thing is gained to any good cause by exaggeration, setting aside the un- 
mess of the thing. With this exception we liked the lecture and are confident that 
i effect of it will be to assist materially the resuscitation, (we might almost say 
•urrection,) of the Temperance cause in Yale. 

(ffibitor'0 (tabic. 

" In mercy spare us, when we do oar best 
To make as much waste paper as the rest.** 

^0 reflections, by any means, reader, on any of the Editorial corps. Rather make 
3 application to yourself — and consider what can more properly be called waste 
iper, than that for which no returns are received, either in thanks or something 
>re substantial. But we will not trouble you with such hints — we beg pardon 
ough for using the word * trouble' in your case, for we would not insinuate that you 
ve 80 much of a conscience left as to be troubled by any such remarks as these, 
our case reminds us of a story we once heard about two men who were trading 
ttle. "Are these cattle orderly ?" says one. " They never have troubled me," said 
e other, ** and I have owned them for many years." The purchaser took the cat- 
^ supposing them to be as represented. He soon howover discovered that he had 
)m most egregiously taken in, for he had never had so unruly cattle on his form, 
otening back with them to the seller, he demanded of him the money in return, 


lMjO editok's IAULE. 

giving as his reason that the cattle were the nio8t unruly animals that he had erv 
seen. " O yes, I know all ulx^ut that," Siiid the former owner. " But," returned the 
other in a raije, '* did you not tell rae that they were perfectly orderly ?** " I told yoa 
nothing of the kind,'' answered the seller. '* You did, sir, aud T can prove it — ^you 
told me that you were never troubled witli them," wafl the indignant renpoDMi 
"Ah,*' replied the other with great coolness, " that may all be, but you knowIneTcr 
let such things trouble me.*' 

iSo it is with you. A subsorilxT to the Yule Lit. thinks no more of cheating ua out 
of two dollars, than he dues uf purloining catalogues from Freshmen. It has come 
to be no crime to do either — both are ."set down as 'good jokes,* — so long as the 
practice does not violate the 'general understiuiding/ it is considered all well enough 
" But," say some, and with reanon too, •' why not adhere to your rules and refuse to 
deiver the Magazine except to those who comply with them?** This is in our. 
opinion the correct course, and were we to do our work over again, we should punoi 
this course. We should do as other publishers do. Hundreds uf students take a Nev 
York paper daily. They know very well that tlicy cannot read their paper until it ii 
theirs to read. We would have them know the same thing in regard to the Magt^ 
zine. We should upon the issue of the first number, procure a list of subscriben 
and have it deiinitely understood that i:o number would be delivered to any 
subscriber until he had delivered two dollars to us. If after the lapse of snfficiflot 
time to allow all who desire to subscribe to do so, and all who intend to pay to 
do so, we should find that our .subscription list was insuificient to meet the ezpeo- 
ses of tlic Magazine, we should refund those who had paid, pay the printer out of 
our own pocket for that number, (for that would be far less than we have to pay 
in the end,) " shut up shop" and let the Lit. go to the bottom of the sea. And that 
is the where it will go as soon as any class shall have the moral courage to pat H 
there. To make live men do half the work and lialf the pay, is too much in thoM 
days, when Seniors have something to do. 

" But are you not flooded with contributors to your pages ?" asks one. •* Do yoo 
Iiave any trouble in tilling your colun^ns V says another. We have contribotoii 
enough, such as they are. A quantity of huge splurges,' considered by their anthon ' 
as remarkable .opecimeus of fine composition. To this they bear about the same 
relation as the gaudy attire of a ' lady of color' does to the burnished mail of 
a gallant knight. " But do you not have any good sound articles sent in ?** oontiih 
ues the inquirer. ' Good sound art ioles' — what is sound writing here in ooUeget ' 
A set of abstract generalizations as true as Euclid's axioms, and a thousaod 
times'more familiiir. We have enough such, in all conscience, as any one can eee 
by looking over our package of ' Iiereditary articles,' as the last Editor called them, 
when handing them to us. 

" How then do you get what you do publish?" proceeds our inquisitive friend. 
Why, teaze our personal friends for them, that's the only way — and a most delight^ 
ful method of spending one's leisure time, it is, we can assure you. 

We would not have it understood by these remarks, that there is no honor here 
in regard to paying for the Magazine, nor that we have no friends who wish for iti ' 
prosperity — fai' from it. Some pay promptly — these we thank. Some write fi* , 
us, and write willingly — will these also, please accept our most hearty thanks. Still ' 
after all, our remarks will be found to be too generally true. 







'oi- XVII. 

APRIL, 1852. 

No. VI. 

^t 'HJalt Cit.' 

WS| of the class of 1852, are almost througli our College labors, and 

of the Bo^ of Editors, are still more nearly through our official 

Our successors have been chosen and are eager to receiye the 

J the ' table,' the * coffin,' and the ' quill ;' our valedictory has been 

; our subscribers have been dunned ; and we hope soon to say that 

printer has been paid. 

te knew but little of our duties when we entered upon them, were 

)d still less about them by the class before us, and have had to 

our way against such drawbacks as only those who are initiated 

»w. We have gained some knowledge, some pleasure, and perhaps a 

honor. We have lost some time, some trouble, and probably not a 

money. Yet, on the whole, we are glad that we were allowed to 

le the duties, and in resigning them, we hope that all successive 

Lvirates may be as harmonious and as pleasant as ours has 

ly been. 

•i{. We remember very well our first official call upon the printer. We 

le some inquiries about the expense of issuing the Magazine. He 

rered us briefly, — and then added, significantly, " I suppose, of course, 

all expect to put your hands pretty deeply into your pockets at the 

of the year. All the Editors, save one single board, have done so 

t^KT aeveral years past" We were taken a little back at such a forbidding 

laimoiuicement and determined that with us there should be no such 


, We cannot yet tell precisely how we shall come out, but for the benefit 

^fl^ Vftcceflflive classes we wish to say a word on the pecuniary condition of 



202 THE *rALK LIT.' [April, 

the Magazine. There is no good reason why the ' Yale Lit' should not 
pay for itself. The students are numerous enough, are able enough, aie 
ready enough to have the Magazine sustained ; and even if one half the 
undergraduates cared nothing at all for its issue, the other half^ we do 
believe, would still keep up its publication. Moreover, enough actually 
subscribe each year to support the Magazine. The trouble is, that with a 
want of principle, which in some persons is carelessness, and in some Ib 
nothing less than meanness^ subscribers do not pay their legal debts. 
We therefore think that the suggestion thrown out in our last number is 
a good one on which to act. Require payment in advance^ and if enough 
will not pay to support the concern, why then give up its pubUcatm, 
tell the world that our College enterprize and liberality is gone, and that 
the zeal of our predecessors is no longer exhibited here. Let the Magazme, 
venerable as it is among all similar cotemporary Magazines, useful as it is 
as a means of improvement, pleasant as it is as a monthly issue during 
the College terms, and valuable as it is as a memento of College days, 
no longer be a drag, but let its death warrant be speedily pronounced. 

But this ought not to be. The College wants the Magazine, audit 
would so decide if the question were put to vote. Seniors will tell jot 
80 as soon as they have paid their two dollars, or have got their diplcHMB 
without having paid ; Juniors, — eager to see what * our class' can do^— 
will add their testimony in its favor ; Sophomores, — ^full of College dig- 
nity and pride, — will demand its continuance ; and Freshmen, — ^wonde^ 
ing who will be their Editors, and hoping each one to attain to the hon- 
or, — ^will be enthusiastic advocates of the Magazine. What we wantii, 
to have this cheating of the Editors, merely because they are too p(^ 
to go round with a Constable from room to room demanding payment^ 
considered as unworthy of any respectable students. 

But there is another thing we want in the Magazine, and that is to 
have more frequent and more general contributions from the members rf 
all the classes. It is foolish to expect that College writers will equal Addi- 
son or Tennyson, or that a College Magazine will compete with the British 
Quarterlies or our own New Englander ; but it is, notwithstanding, true 
that there are a great variety of topics connected with College lifer 
and particularly with life at Yale, which ought to be ftiUy discussed in 
these pages and which would make them more interesting to the students 
than even reviews of higher intrinsic value. It is so dear to us that this 
is so, and moreover we have so often alluded to the matter in one w^ 
and another, that it seems almost needless to speak of it again. Yet our 
experience convinces us that the students generally forget the fact "® 
ask for contributions, and a score of dry essays on morals and philosophy 

1852.] THE *TALB LIT.* 20S 

are received through the Poet Office, some of them in &ct so tedious and 
of 80 little point that it would be an imposition on the printer to ask him 
to set them up. A few of our friends (and our thanks be to them) have 
fiunished us with local articles which have been more read, more liked 
and more talked of than dozens of abstract dissertations, but we do not 
nmember to have received through the regular channel, our Post Office 
box, a single local article, during the whole year of our editorial life. 

This cannot be for want of local topics. A man who thinks a minute 
vill see there is no lack of subjects of that nature. There are criticisms 
en the style of speaking, writing, debating, and studying; there are sug* 
gesdons of common interest in respect to the conduct of the Literary 
fiodeties; there are arguments both pro and con on every topic of Col- 
lege talk — on Test debates, on Kossuth meetings, on Autograph books, 
on Class Societies; there are histories of the libraries, the professional 
idkools, the College buildings, and many other things which need to be 
iBfestigated and definitely written out ; there are the CoDege lives of 
dirtinguished graduates and accounts of eminent benefactors ; there are 
Mearches into College customs ; there are entertaining stories told by 
Mily graduates of their student lives ; there are hints on professional 
anticipations, on Ladies' society, and on prospects of connubial bliss ; there 
are incidents and tists of occupants connected with many of the College 
looms ; there are stories of our own personal adventures and vacation 
operience ; there are the lives of some real characters who have for years 
been a<tocA^« of .the College,— like "Robert" and "Creed," and "Rev. 
Mr. Squirrell ;" and indeed there are a thousand similar topics, which, if 
pleasantly treated by different writers, would be more read, and give more 
pleasore to students, to citizens, and to graduates, than most of us 
imagine. To be sure many topics like these require investigation, but if 
that is given, both writer and reader will be most amply repaid. For 
OQiselves we wish we had known this at the outset of our editorial labors, 
and we therefore cannot forbear to urge it now upon the attention of our 
Kaders and contributors, assuring our fellow students that the Magazine 
AM he exactly what they choose to make ity either dry or entertaining. 
For your own sakes, then, do send the Editors something beside mere 
irtides on "Power" and "Virtue." 

We would by no means prevent the publication of articles which have 
been read in societies or division rooms. Only let it be provided that the * 
subject is one of general interest, and that it is treated in an attractive 
^ay ; and such an article is not only worth hearing once, but is worth 
^ing twice, and no one can rightly complain at the disposition which 
^ thus made of it 


We do not make these remarks upon 'the Lit' in a oomplaming or 
disparaging tone. We have seen during the past year, many College 
Magazines from various portions of the land, and if any of our readen 
wish to judge as to the relative standing of 'the Lit' we invite them to 
call at 'our office' and look at the pile of exchanges. We do, however^ 
wish to see our favorite 'Mag.' still better than it is. 

If any of our readers come across 'the Etonian,' an Enghsh Ck>llegd 
Magazine, now discontinued, we b^ they will eicamine it, for we know 
they will like it ; not because it is perfect, but because it sbows a yoiitk- 
ful flow of spirits and a humorous, graceful way of writing, which if 
somewhat practiced here at Yale would be a relief and even a benefit to 
the more vig<Mt)us, and more valuable styles of composition which m 
here so exclusively cultivated. 

We sincerely hope that the Memorabilia Yalensia will not be gi^en 
up. We have heard again and again of the pleasure it gives to penons 
out of College. At any rate, a record of ' College news' is particnlariy 
appropriate and important in a Magazine like this ; it pleases at the tine 
those who are here, and after graduation it brings to mind many interestii^ 
facts; it interests those students who havelefb New Haven, and it maket 
each volume useful as a permanent book of reference. 

But we have already dwelt too long upon these topics, and yet we have 
not said half of what we wish. We trust that the hints here given will 
be taken in good part for whatever they are worth. We are too nearly 
through CoU^e to be influenced by any other motive than the penoA' 
nent good of ' Mag.' and we hope sincerely that for many years to oomd 
old Governor Yale will smile benignantly upon interested circleB of 
readers and that ' the Lit' will grow in favor and in excellence, beii^ 
ever the oldest and best of College Magazines. 

CoUegt Ctft. 

We have elsewhere had occasion to speak of the Poetical element in 
College life, but the subject is so suggestive in its nature, and to us at 
least is so pleasant an object of thought, in the few odd minutes which 
we get for quiet meditation amid the many hours of busy care, that w< 
venture upon it again, aware that it is not easily exhausted and h6pin{ 
that some of its branches may still further be discussed by those mor 
competent to treat of them. 

1%S2!\ OOLLEOB LIF8. 205 

We aokttowledge tluit at first the thought of anything Poetical in Col- 
lege life is rery paradoxical. This moving so constantly according to nile^ 
this presenting a formal excuse for every bodily ailment ; this tumbling out 
of bed before it is light, and sitting for an hour, sleepy, shivering, and hun- 
gry beneath a tutor's gaze ; this being interrupted every other hour by a 
summons to a lecture or a recitation from the indefiatigable college bell ; this 
toiling by " the midnight taper," — not to get knowledge but to raise your 
standing for a college course from three and seventy-five one hundredths 
to three and seventy-six, and thus to secure the highest honors, — doea 
noilook.very much like courting ^Hhe Muses," nor cultivating acquain- 
tiQoe with " the Graces." If all inducements to Ladies' Society were at- 
tended with as many draw-backs as there are in the case of ^* the Nine 
Gamoense," we are afraid that the belles of New Haven would suffer 
itill more than the belles of Mount Olympus, and if all Poetry is culti- 
fited under such circumstances — save us, We say, from a Poet's life I 

However, this idea of the Poetical in Ck)llege life is not in itself so 
itrange, as it is that students should have any time to notice it. Driven 
ai. we are by studies, excited as we are by college societies, engaged in 
earning money as many of us always are, maintaining as we mnst some 
iBttfcourse with the world outside of college walls, — and thus tied down 
to matters of £Act, it is almost preposterous to think that we should 
elifiiish poetical sentiments. Still there is a poetical element in a life like 
oun, which, since distance lends enchantment to the view, — is seen and 
lelt by those away from collie ; but which we, too, if we could only 
pause and think, might also see and feel The beautiful scenery amid 
which we live, the studies in which we are engaged, the history of the 
^ege, and the numerous associations which hallow every spot, are sug- 
gestive of ample poetical thought 

Consider for a moment, theplace in which we live, and say if it is not 
one a poet well may love. Nature and Art have here combined their 
beauties. Gro walk beneath that Grove of Elms and see where Justice, Piety 
and Learning, guardians of the body, soul and mind, have fixed their con* 
stant homes. There stand the State-House, Church and Hall of Science^ 
apart as they should ever be, but on a level, and moreover, side by side, 
as if so placed to indicate their harmony. 

Who ever, on a summer evening, in the well-manned boat, has crossed 
tiiia bay, listening to the rumbling of the town, and to its chime of bells 
mingling with the nearer music of the oar and wave, — or who in the still- 
ness oi a moonlight night, has overlooked this city from those rampart 
rocka, as safe retreats in time of danger as the old acropolis of Athens, 
and which in peace like guardian lions watch this place, — and has not felt 
an inward glow, he knows not whence nor why, but which pervaded and 

206 OOLLXQB U¥m, [Apri]^ 

enlarged his inmoet soul ? And on a Sabbath morn how oft we call to 
mind the words of one inspired within these shades, who said, 

" That here God*i day was holier, — ^that the trees 
Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing erer 
* To prayer !* ' to prayer V were but the lofty roof 
Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs 
Breexes and storm winds and the many birds 
Joined in the varied anthem.** 

Is there not poetry in all of this ? 

Tom next to sttidies, and seek for Poetry in them. Derote yvarself to 
classic writings, and having fully grasped the meaning of those ^ thought 
that breathe and words that bum," give way to what is there suggested 
or expressed, and how we seem to hear the blind old Homer singing of 
^the man of many arts;" how we listen to the shrewd questionings of 
Socrates; or catch from his own lips the flowing periods of Cicero; or 
are so moved by the eloquence of Demosthenes, that we too exclaim, Let 
us go against Philip. What strange analogies and quaint resemblanees 
to life we find in Chemistry ; how the loves of the Alkalis and Adds amuse 
the fancy ; while the silent agencies, like unconscious influences working 
always round us, the power of doing good which everything possenes, 
the economy of nature, the bondage of the elements, the wars of mat- 
ter, and many more suggestive facts are taught by active yet inanimate 
instructors. Geology becomes a huge volume, whose pages are the strata 
of rock recorded ineflaceably by the Creator with the story of CreatioDf 
an enduring evidence of the Bible's inspiration. Philosophy shows us 
that the imiverse is one vast record of our deeds and words, proving 
that as a falling apple attracts the earth, every human motion moves the 
earth, and if the earth, the sun, the solar system and the stellar universe; 
while the particles of air set in motion by every word we utter, and act- 
ing endlessly on one another, become permanent and floating evidence of 
all that we have ever spoken — ^records which may be revealed by the 
mathematics of infinity and which an infinite mind can at any time un- 
fold. ^ Geometry and Faith" in a true, although poetic sense become 
united, and Astronomy, the theme of so many poems of the sweet 
singer of Israel, teaches us to hear * the music of the spheres,' to catch the 
lingering echoes of the strains ' the morning stars once sang together/ 
points out the unimportance of this consequential planet, and ever calb 
our minds from earth to heaven. Such crowds of secondary thou^ts, if 
we will let them, will often overwhelm mere technicalities of Science, just 
as the undertones in a chord of music overpower the key-note on which 
they are based. Th^ come through the dryest treatises Eke the secret 


on telegraphic wires. They appear like golden fibres twined with 

1 rope. 

aider, thirdly, how poetical the history of this place. It has its 

chapter, so free a field for'^fancy's sport ; its colonial and its revo- 
ry days crowded with heroic actions ; its history as the capital of 
I now the oldest republic, save one, upon this globe, and that his- 
iculiarly its own, as this seat of learning. The simplicity of its 
3cords has now the force of grandeur. First came the church, 
3n the State, and then the College. How sublime the origin of 
tke opening of the colony, when on the Sabbath day, beneath that 
1 gathered as a Church and called upon Jehovah's name ; the form- 
that plain bam, of a free Governmental Compact, which entwined 
iier cords, soon made a bond of union for this Commonwealth 
iicut ; the founding of the College, with no empty forms, no sound- 
nes, no gold and silver treasures, but with the offerings of that 
f ministers who said, ^ I give these books to found a college.'' 
»ry of the Judges sheltered here, the strange appearance of that 
m ship, and the resistance to an invading foe, are all like faded 
J which only need to be restored and they will surprise us with their 
; while we shall also find that the private lives are full of incident 
Jds here girding for the race, wrestlers for the combat, warriors 
battle, and sailors for the voyage of life. 

aside from written history, there are innumerable associations that 
this place. On yonder comer stood that oak, beneath whose 
es this colony commenced its life, worthy more honor than the 
r Oak or the tree of Liberty in Boston ; where that student's room 
this State was founded ; beneath that church, there lies the dust of 
lower pilgrim ; in that mountain cave, the Judges of an English 
found a refuge from the pursuers arm ; beneath that elm, Jonathan 
Is wooed his bride ; there, Whitefield preached ; on yonder field, the 
were repelled ; that house was occupied by Washington ; and in 
ave-yard, lies the dust of Scholars eminent in every calling who 
I walls were trained for life. Their feet have trod these paths and 
lese stairs ; these recitation seats were occupied by them ; their hands 
ratched these names upon the wall doors ; their eyes have pored 
ese folios. Within that study, beneath that elm, upon that walk„ 
, man has chosen a course for life, put forth resolves, and nerved 

for future actions, and now his spirit seems to hover o'er the spot^ 
the silent night it whispers in our ear the tale of all its trials and 
>ries, bidding us take courage, for if we persevere, a good reward 

206 ODA. [AfHril, 

Let us, fellow BtudeDts, take time to consider these things, for thus, as 
we think upon the present, related to the past and future, we shall feel i 
strange delight, we shall gather pleasant thoughts like flowers upon the 
paths of collie life, we shall spy pearls heoeath what seems to be mere 
piles of rubbish, and we shall perceive the glowing spark beneath i1;pbed 
of ashes. And when all students seek for the Poetical in College Hfe, a 
new atmosphere will surround this spot ; our Athenaeum and Lyceum, 
and our Academic groves shall be as attractive as those of old ; not only 
shall we find ** tongues in trees, sermons in stones, and books in the run- 
ning brooks,'' but these college walls shall speak ; each leaf u^n these 
elms shall be a leaf of poetry ; the birds shall sing the heroes who have 
been trained, and the rocks shall be indelibly engraved with the stoiiet 
of their deeds. Ennobled by the influence, our lives will be improved ; 
our minds will be refined and brought nearer Him who embodies all sub- 
limity and beauty'; memory will be quickened, afliaetions will be formed, 
and a warmer enthusiasm will be kindled in all the sons <^ our Alma 
Mater, for everything pertaining to the cherished name of Yale. 

D. c. 0. 


Felix ter est qui percipiat bene, 
Yitae viam per quomodo perdeat 

Non auream opportunitatem 

Evolltantem oculo maniique. 

Nonnulli amittunt, dmn lacrimaot din 
Horns amissas irrevocabilea, 

Multam aaream opportunitatem 

Evolltantem oculo manuque. 

Sed tempuB actum non Deus ezprobrat 
Mortallum cuique. Ut melius bene 

Uti aurea opportunitate 

Evolitante oculo manuque I 

Tu fortis ergo promoveas gradum : 
Keve otiosam, Coete, mihi sinas 

IJllam auream opportunitatem 

EvoUtare oculo manuque. s. f* ^ 





Ubi calores sol yehemeDS agros, 
In arefactos fundit et hispidoB; 

Ubi domtis, aiant, negarit 

Omnipotens Opifez peritns ; 

Intraque Cancri circuitus citos 
Et Capricorni ; sub rapidisssimo, 

In Himalaya candidata, 

Sole, domo nivis omoe tempos; 

Regina frigens imperium tenet, 
Immitem et SBtemum imperium tenet^ 

Hiems niyalis, cincta nimbis, 

Sole caloreque jion soluta. 

Sic semper algens ac miserabilis 
Ut discat usque et noverit omnia 

Qui vivit integre ; invidendus 

Non mihi, non tibi, care amice ! 

Sed maxime vir redditus est Deo 
Felix abundet cujus amore cor. 

Salute gaudens commodoque 

Largiter alterius beatur, 4. f. b. 

In0incmtg in College, It0 (Eanst mi fitrrt. 

7 days ago, there met my eye at the corner of the street, a placard 

cing a lecture on the subject of " Sincerity ^ as an elem nt of suo- 

Scholarship." It was a subject quite accordant with a train of 

b into which I had before been thrown ; and it excited this anew 

my mind. Being unable to hear the lecture, I was tempted to 

short one of my own ; giving however, to my abstract thoughts 

ncreteness, more special reference to time and place than I suppose 

urer gave to his. 

thoughts upon this topic were aroused by observing certain 

ind characteristics of Student-life at this institution. An element 

^CERiTY, as I believe prevails here to a lamentable extent, deser- 

tention, and if possible. Reform. What I shall write, will be io 

re to my Alma Mater, and to those, her 80iv9^. whom she is pee* 
XVII. 27 

SIO iKsnroERrrr in collxgk, [April, 

paring for life in the " wide, wide world." I would 

" Nothing extenuate, nor set down ought in malice,** 
but look at things as they are^ unflinchingly, yet kindly, and with the 
good of all continually in view. 

I believe, then, and therefore say, that an element of insincerity pre- 
vails here to a lamentable extent. This is surely a grave charge. Can we 
now substantiate it ? And if we do, can we trace the causes of the ex- 
istence of this element, and suggest any plan for its removal ? It will 
doubtless be very far easier to do the first than the second, and both 
these than the last 

But it does exist ; and is manifested in many ways, less palpably in 
some than others, yet in all, clearly enough and by unmistakeable signs. 

What means the sly wink and innuendo which often goes around a 
knot of students when such-a-one is inquired after ? " Is he sick ?" answer, 
a wink and some remark, such as, " You know the Townsends are to be 
handed in pretty soon," or seme remark equally fraught with meaning to 
the members of the delinquent's class. The element of insincerity in ren- 
dering excuses, so prevails, that scarcely one escapes being involved in it 
really or by suspicion. The section of the college laws wherein certain 
circumstances are made contraband, as excuses, recognizes this — and vir- 
tually says, " In days past the commonness of these (good enough in 
themselves, if honestly rendered, yet so liable to be counterfeited,) has 
made them worthless, and they are no longer current coin." And it 
would seem that before another edition of the " Laws," another batch of 
excuses, " indisposition^ and such-like general terms, — would have to be 
outlawed, and rendered " of none effect." 

No one who mingles with students daily, can escape the knowledge 
that these are /ac^5. Thev meet him at every turn. 

Again, — to a lamentable extent it is the case that students have no 
credit for doing or saying anything with a true and earnest desire for 
immediate good. The " general understanding among men" which Dr. 
Whewell places at the foundation of the Duty of Truth, among Yalen- 
sians, seems to be narrowed down to this, " It is understood that each has 
before him, a temporary, artificial object to attain, thoroughly selfish, 
made up, a man of straw to demolish, for the occasion,^ Let a student, 
in the college phrase, " rush," — why, he is ambitious, — has been beating his 
brains, to get that lesson, for what? Because he wanted to? No! 
Because he thirsted for the knowledge or the discipline or the power of 
working for good to his fellow-men which the getting of that knowledge 
would give him f No ! He is after the valedictory, or an oration, ort^e 
pridse of those around him. A pure motive, is the very rarest thing a^ 


1852.] ITS CAUSB AND CURE. 811 

signed for such a phenomenon. Or, perhaps the student rises to read 
a composition in the Division room. Has he credit for writing it, to ex- 
press his ideas and feelings upon some topic of interest and importance, 
with a view to making them understood and appreciated by those around 
him, for their good and improvement ? No ! but an earnest watching 
of the instructor's hand as he traces the fatal ** mark,^ unlocks and ex- 
poses the secret of that eflbrt, to the view of those around — at least, so 
they declare, and believe, too— or affect to do so. Or the student rises 
to make a speech in his Literary Society. Perhaps it is on no question 
of real or inmiediate interest, affecting the Society, or the members of 
it The interest must all be manufactured. He clothes his thoughts in 
his best language — he speaks in his best style to enliven the bald theme, 
and make it interesting to those around him. But lo ! he hears, or sees 
written upon the uneasy, perhaps sneering faces around him " Splurge" — 
and a consciousness that he is thought to be getting up cannon-ball and 
sheet-iron pan thunder, and electrical-machine-lightning, cramps his ener- 
gies, and amid a crushing sense of unreality, he accomplishes scarcely 
anything by his efforts. 

Now this is true of almost everything which claims the Students at- 
tention. To what is the alacrity attributed, which he displays on hear- 
ing the well-known clang of the college bell ? Is it to joy that the pleas- 
ant hour of prayer has come ?— that the hour has arrived for communing 
with others upon topics of tliought and feeling mutually interesting in 
Science, and all the branches of human knowledge ? Not at alL Each 
sees in his hurrying brother's eye the fear that the " marl^^ will go against 
his name, and detract so much from that aggregate of excellencies which 
is to fix his rank upon the stage, the goal of his desires. 

He sees fit, may be, to regard interests higher and farther reaching 
than these temporary ones. Pooh 1 it's all affectation, and the fox with 
the grapes is wisely and knowingly cited as a type of the unfortunate 

So, also, in a recitation, one becomes interested in the subject under con- 
sideration, &lLs into the earnest, animated, conversational tone, natural 
in such a case, and perhaps lifts his finger to add emphasis to what he 
says, by a gesture ; wo to him I he becomes at once the subject of smiles 
and jokes, that he has so far forgotten himself as to feel and talk »ai- 
^rally in a recitation, as to think the «w6/ec^of such real importance as to 
make proper such unwonted energy, and so on, to the end of .the chapter 

Now, tliat these are facts, widely prevalent, we appeal to the gathering 
of any observant mind to establish. That the value of life here, the 
▼ahie of the instroctioD received, the discipline acquired,, tl^e hapi»ii68B 

919 iirsiircBmiTT in oollsob, *g. [Apfil, 

€njoye<l, are materially, very materially lessened by all this, cannot be de- 
nied. This feeling <A unreality in the case of each, gives rise to the sus- 
picioii of it in his fellow, and to the attributing to him of a desire to at- 
tain only the unreal good, to the neglect of the real substantial good for 
himself and others, beyond. 

Now, why is all this so ? It requires but half an eye to see that it m 
BO, but " why is it ?" is a hard question. Is there, in the minds of thoM 
who oome hither from all parts of the land, a predisposition to this insin- 
oerity ! to this suspicion ? Do they come^ regarding college standing and 
reputation, as an end f We think they do, in a large majority of instan- 
ces. Young, just out of the precincts of the school-house, with its, io 
many cases, abominably artificial mode of treating them, they here step 
ap(») a larger arena; where Agoing to the head^ ^c, are exchanged foi 
^ getimg 4," and speaking the chief part in the best dialogue on exhibi- 
tion day, for speaking the "valedictory." Throughout the two sdioob 
there is sham-fighting and the presentation of wooden swords. 

After entering upon this arena, and we say this with due deference, is 
it not true, that the motives kept before the eye, in the instructors' and 
monitors' books, and other temporary incitements, do far more than real 
interest in the studies pursued, to keep students onward in a direct course! 
We are far firom proposing to dispense with them. They are, perhaps, on 
the whole, the best means of securing faithfulness, and recording the 
merits of the students — ^but we complain that they are exalted far too 
higUy in comparison with the real interests which should be at the foun- 
dation of their efforts. What we would have, is a spirit on the part ol 
liie student, of proper obedience and subordination, it is true, but not ol 
mere subserviency to the/erm of government. That man is not a re- 
publican, whom only force — the necessity of his situation — ^keeps subordi- 
nate to the law. He only is truly such, who has constant within him the 
tpirit of love to the institutions— confidence in their excellency, and a 
desire to do all he can to support them. If the constant effort of dti- 
cens is to evade the laws, so far as they can, it surely presages anything 
i)ut permanency in these, except so far as there is outward force sufljcient 
to keep this disposition in abeyance. We want interest in the studies 
pursued, conviction of their importance, and regard to their direct rela 
tions to our life in the world beyond our college walls. K we are to be 
men, we want the manly spirit cultivated here. If we are to succeed here, 
we would have our success the result of energetic interest^ in matters 
which we are persuaded will be for our benefit, and that of those around 
us, matters of reed and not imagmary importance. And the cultivatioa 
of thk spirit fa, in brief what we prc^Mee as the lemedy for the insioctr' 
itjT of which we complain. A- 


9ri)e Cammt of tlje ^xinQanan (txilt. 

Sons of Freedom 1 I am needj ; 

Witoess my disheyeled suit, 
And my hat so very seedy, 

And my one remaining boot ; 
Own I not a single dollar, 

No cravat adorns my throat. 
Not a sign of linen collar 

Gleams above my threadbare coat 

Shame upon your institutions, 

Which we thought to be so free ! 
You pretend to growl at " Roossians,'' 

Yet you will not smile on me ; 
Shame upon your spangled banner I 

And your great bald eagle too. 
You, who spurn me in a manner 

Even worse than German Jew. 

And the small boys of the city, 

(Cute they are and deeply shrewd !) 
All. quite destitute of pity. 

Seem to me extremely rude ; 
For, whene'er I ask for money, 

Greet they me with egg or brick. 
And appear to think it funny 

That I don't enjoy the trick. 

Once when sad and sorrow laden. 

Shuffled I along Broadway, 
Passing near a lovely maiden, 

Shrank she from me in dismay ; 
And her organ then of smelling 

Buried wildly in her muff. 
While her beau, with anger swelling. 

Gave me a decided cuff 

And I thought how erst at Buda, 

Pesth, Debretzin, and Erlan, 
Far from being an intruder, 

I in fashion led the van ; 
Host renowned in fancy dances. 

Skilled in love and stratagem. 
Drew I on me envious glances 

E'en from Jellachich and Bern. 


Did I dream that thus degraded, 

Such cootumely I should meet» 
When with Kossuth we paraded, 

In procession, through the street ; 
Cheered bj every glad beholder. 

Heralded by trump and drum. 
While we, o'er a mental shoulder 

Pointed each a mental thumb. 

When all lion-mad the people 

Hastened at our feet to kneel, 
When the bells from every steeple 

Rang a patriotic peal ; 
When embowered at the " Irring," 

At the national expense, 
Free-bom waiters proudly serving, 

Blacked our boots with reverence. 

When we in a dreamy slumber. 

Chuckling at our leader s game, 
Heard his speeches without number. 

All amounting to the same; 
When from neighboring towns and cities 

JN'atives rushed our hands to shake, 
And the females, by committees, 

Kissed us well for Freedom's sake. 

Why repeat the well known story t — 

Faded soon our transient Uliss, 
Faded temporary glory, 

Man's applause and woman's kiss ; 
Howard, vainly seeking payment, 

Kicked us out the door at last. 
And without a change of raiment, 

Stood we in the world, aghast I 

Ye who sport the Kossuth feather, 

Ye who wear the Kossuth tile^ 
I appeal to you now, whether 

I deserve to be so vile : — 
Ah Columbians 1 rash, unruly. 

Always " going it" too strong. 
Though with ease you're humbugged truly, 

Yet you won't stay humbugged Umg 1 u l. p* 

1852.] COLLBOB BOATING. 215 

€oHt%t 3oat\n%. 

Future historians may succeed in rescuing from the Lethean wave 
some older boat, but our own memory goes back no farther than the 
time when the Excelsior was launched from the yard of famous Cap- 
bain Brooks. This was in the year 1844, and the staunch old craft is 
Jtill afloat, the Ironsides of our College navy, while several of her frailer 
iisters have yielded to successive equinoctials, and are now running on 
Jie Stygian ferry. The Osceola and the Augusta, peace to their thole- 
Dins, never again will thrill with the impulse given them by the stout 
irms of those who, like themselves, are College classes no more. 

There are now in the ceUar of " Brooks and Thatcher, boat-builders," 
^raiting for. the summer " season," the Excelsior, the Shawmut, the At- 
iLANTA, the Phantom and the Halcyon. Their ladyships are to be re- 
paired this Springs vacation, and they promise to make the coming sea- 
K)n as pleasant as the last. 

Can we ask for more ? Let the following " log" of a cruise on one of 
ast summer's moonlight evenings be a memorial of our pleasures to 
hose who enjoyed them, and, at the same time, an antepast of pleasures 
7ei in store. 

The tide is swelling slowly up through the sea-grass, throwing its last 
wavelets against the shore-most pebbles, and the western sky above the 
yreen forest of the distant elm-trees, glows with the hues of sunset, 
vhich the calm waters of the spreading bay reflect with almost equal 
splendor. Close to the shore the graceful form of our boat reclines on the 
filing " liquid," which rises in kissing riplets against her rounded sides. 
?rom the flagstaff at the bow flutters our pennant of blue ; along the 
iwarts are ranged the white oars on either side ; and at the stern the 
lerveless tiller-ropes tell, with an impatient motion, of the restless helm 
Delow. On the shore, in graceful attitudes of course, are the waiting 
irew, the " painter" and stem-line held by two of them, restraining the 
ongings of the boat to float out with the ebbing tide. 

They have not long to wait, for turning yonder comer is a short pro- 
fession of ladies, led on by our gallant captain, in his becoming uniform 
^f blue and white. As they approach, we count — seven of them ! Can 
we carry them all ? " Ladies are ethereal," yet they occupy space. The 
captain seats the " dowager," who matronizes the company, in the " stem- 
Bteets" with four of them, and the two others are enthroned at the bow. 
Only one or two of them even pretend to fear the short step from the 
skore to the boat, which yields gently to their light tread. "There is no 


danger of her sinking," says the Captain, " the boat has seven buop!" 
The crew take their seats in order; the bowsman pushes from the 
shore ; the orders are given to 

*• Peak ! Let fall I Give way ! 

And away we glide 

With the ebbing tide, 
Into the open bay.^ 

The western glories are now leadening into night, and soon we notice 
4ihe increasing brightness of the high full moon. The eastern clouds 
grow white, the wave-tops catch the silvery reflection, and distant sails 
stand out clearly against the darker sky on the "starboard quarter.'' 
We pass rapidly, even with our extra load, by " Long Wharf" and the 
clustering vessels there, and soon feel the delighful sea-breeze which comes 
from the cool waters of the distant Sound. 

Various expressions of delight are heard from our fair passengers; 
tihey dip their unkided hands into the water which"^ripples through their 
fingers with silver bubbles ; they admire the boat — and the crew, espe- 
cially the stroke-oarsman; they venture on musical addresses to the 
" silver moon ;" they fear that we shall tire ourselves with pulling those 
long oars. So to please them and ourselves, we take the '* Rainbow Rest" 
'* Violet /—Indigo I— Blue /— Green l— Yellow !— Orange t—Red .'"- 
shouts the Captain ; and giving a long, strong stroke to each one, we 
" Vast pulling," and " rest our weary oar." 

Now an animated conversation between the " larboard bow oar,** and 
the adjacent fair, becomes more distinctly audible. Yet it ceases while a 
song starts from the stern sheets and goes echo-hunting towards the shore. 
Soon we're oflf again, our bow heading towards " the Light," which 
twinkles far away to the south'ard. Now " the Fort" looms up on the 
eastern shore, and as we approach its rocky battlements, we discuss the 
expediency of landing there or going on beyond to " the Cove." The 
latter plan is majoritied, and we alter our course, holding the Light 
on our starboard quarter, and soon discover the tall poplar trees which 
crown the bank above our landing place. 

High and dry on the smooth sand we "beach" our boat before our 
passsengers rise to step on shore, and then rough sailors become gallant 
gentlemen, and the ladies are escorted to seats under the poplars, or they 
wander along the narrow beach. Songs are sung again, some of them 
desperately sentimental, as, "Sleeping, I dreamed, love," others decided- 
ly jolly, as, " In the good old Colony days." The time passes rapidly 
and pleasantly away in shell^gathering, and wave-escaping walks, or 

BOAT Bono. 31?> 

' moon-gazing from seats on the grassy bank, and we are surpri- 

the "dowager^ speaks of "Tii|ie to go." 
lands!" shouts the Captain, and gathering about the boat, 
e receding tide has left far up on shore, we push her back into 
ent, and handing the ladies on board, we are soon at our oars 
d are parting the waves, homeward bound. The tide is against 
be wind is in our favor, and we are not long in passing the Palis- 
[ the Fort; and soon in the open harbor, we turn our bow 
^he lights of the distant city, 
ivents of the return voyage are similar to those of the outward 

Yet, for a short distance, it is a passage of arms, for our ambi- 
used by a fair question in relation to our possible, in the way of 
id we endeavor to give our lading a good opinion of the merits 
)at and our own muscular developments. The " larboard bow" 
iing, and the " second oar" stops " sogering," and altogether, 

a will, we propel the good boat swiftly through the brine, 
ie is low and we cannot land at our starting place, so we pull 
J " Ryker's," and are compelled to give our guests the trouble 
bling up the rough stones of the wharf. With our assistance, 

the ascent does not prove very difficult; indeed, one of the 
remarks, good humoredly, that it puts the dim-ax to the pleasures 

ges, in waiting, convey our friends to their up-town homes and 
mothers, accompanied by the Captain and one or two of the 
while the rest of us put away the oars, cushions and stretchers, 
ly walking up the quiet and deep-shaded streets, we congratu- 
3lves on the delights of an evening on the briny deep. 

N. W. T, 

Boat Qon%. 

(Air— "UNCLE NED.'») 

B0W8MAN ! push her from the shore I 
Take the boat-hook, not an oar t 
Ooil the painter on the floor, 

In the bow I 
Take your places I peak I let fall I 
Ready 1 hear the captain's call I 
Follow stroke, and give way all 


KVIL 28 


218 BOAT BONO. [April, 

Is'nt this most 8pIeDdid weather I — 
Second itarboard, mind your feather ! — > 
Pull a little more together 

On the ** port P 
Catch a " cancer,'* if yon dare. 
And of ** swallows'* too, beware. 
Fifteen minntet and we're there 

At the Fort I 

Cant yon trim a little aft f — 

How the winds our banner waft 1 
" Like a thing of life" our craft 

Promenades ; 
See how brightly glows the west ! 
How it gilds the ocean's breast I 
One 1 twol three ! four 1 five I six l^Batt 1 

Jolly blades. 

Now comrades, raise the strain, 
And let no man refrain, 
Though he may not quite attain 

To the tone ; 
While the insects phosphorescent 
In the ripples shine incessant. 
And above us beams the crescent 

Of the moon. 

When in after years we're harbored. 
With an infant on our larboard 
Knee, and sitting at our starboard 

Side a wife ; 
As within our ''clinker** cottage 
We devour our homely pottage. 
Gliding calmly towards the dotage 

Of our life. 

Then the rising generation 
We will tell with exultation. 
How with keen exhileration. 

Long ago, 
Many puns we perpetrated, 
And our songs reiterated. 
And the mermaids fascinated 

Dowu below. t.r. 

.] FESTUS. 919 




That is a strange development in the nature of man which lies at 
the bottom and forms the groundwork of that ancient book — ^Job. It 
is a fact — not a speculation, a romance — that in the history of our race 
a human being was given up in all but his life to the power of Satan — 
that he might be tempted, and his allegiance to his Creator tried. For 
many ages, as far as we know, this idea, this historical truth, was embod- 
ied in a single book. But coming along down the track of time, we find 
that about the year 1587 of the Christian Era, it burst forth under a 
aaodified form and was scattered throughout Europe, being translated in- 
to all the most important languages. At this time it received considera- 
ble modifications — Doctor Faustus became the hero — instead of being 
3[iven.up he sold himself to Lucifer, writing out the articles of stipulation 
in legal form with his own blood. Truth was no longer strictly adhered 
/>. To such an unique conception fancy added her gewgaws, until it be- 
3ame one of the most eccentric nondescript things in all literature. Chris- 
x)pher Marlowe, the old English dramatist, threw it into the form of a 
irama in which were represented thirty particular and distinct persons, 
3esides a host of cardinals, bishops, monks, friars, soldiers, servants, 6co, 
5e confined himself closely enough, and perhaps too much so, for the 
real interest of the play, to the form of the current story. The catas- 
;rophe consisted in the Doctor being at the end of the twenty-four 
^ears torn into fragments on a terrible night, and his soul conducted to 
ihe presence of Lucifer. 

German superstition and mysticism carried the matter still further. 
Doctor Faust became a terror to the ignorant and a wonder to the leam- 
ad. Finally Go6the brought it out in the form of his inimitable Faust. 
Now it was said to be allegorical — that the hero shadowed forth the soul 
of man struggling against moral evil in the world — plunging into the 
naost contaminating vices, loathsome debauchery, and at the last, all 
that was immortal rising to the reward of the just Last of all, the old 
superannuated idea travelled back to Great Britain, and a few years since 
appeared once more under the name of Festus. This work flashed forth 
brilliantly and to use one of its own figures, " like a rocket tearing up. 
the aky.** The press immediately was loud in its praise— some said ••« 

S20 rs8TU8. [April, 

remarkable and most magnificent production," others, " it contains poe- 
try enough to set up fifty poets," others, " it contains some of the most 
wonderful things we ever read," but above all it seemed to inspire a very 
strong sentiment of originality. 

Of its originality we will first speak. I do not presume to criticise the 
work — but there are a few ideas which might be mentioned without ta-, 
king the odious name of criticism. It has been said of the opening scene 
that the idea was derived from the book of Job— further than this I have 
seen nothing written that intimates the possibility of its having a resem- 
blance to any other composition. Now it does not matter whether 
the author went directly to the fountain head, and took the thought or 
intercepted it in any of its numerous streams that have spread over the 
world. But when we read Marlowe's Drama, Doctor Faustus, the life of 
Faustus from the German, and above all Goethe's Faust, we see this old 
notion worked up into some very splendid productions. The idea of a 
man ransacking creation in the company of a devil, who gratifies all his 
prurient curiosity is not an original conception with the author of Fes- 
tus. Changing Faustus into Festus and Mephistophiles into Lucifer, b 
fiir short of originality. The heroes of the poem are then most evident- 
ly borrowed — old machinery is dusted and set to work. The pervading 
sentiment — the soul — or as it has been called, the philosophy of the 
poem is " the ministry of evil as a purifier." Here he treads in the footr 
steps of Goethe non pari passu, although he went further than the Ger- 
man poet dared. Angels bear away the immortal part of Faust show- 
ing that he was meant to come forth purified from all the vices with 
which he had"^been contaminated ; but Festus is not only in like manner 
saved, but also admits Lucifer, the very embodiment of evil, to the same 
Heaven. If the author is original in this, every man who cares for his 
moral character, will gladly " leave him alone in his glory." Thus much 
for the poem generally. When we come to look at its divisions, the suc- 
cessive developments of the plot — if indeed it can be said to have a plot 
— we shall find resemblances to the G^^rman work so striking, that I fear 
they will look very much like imitations. The opening of both is the 
same — Goethe calls it a prologue — ^Bailey a Scene in Heaven — mere de- 
velopments of the first and sec-^nd chapters of Job. In both' the arch- 
fiend appears, and desires a human being to be ^ven up to his will — ^it is 
permitted. In the second scene of each, the hero makes a lengthy solil- 
oquy upon his past fortunes, his present condition and his transcendental 
f^iurations for the future. In each, after the soliloquy, the devil appean 

1852.] FKSTU8. 221 

—the connection is made — and we are led from that time forth to look 
npon Faust, or Festus and Lucifer, as companions. 

It would be tedious to follow the comparison through, scene by scene, 
— we will take but one or two more. There is a scene in Festus, near a 
village, where at evening come out representatives of all classes, and give 
the hero a fine opportunity to dilate upon the grades of humanity, which 
he accordingly does. This has its prototype in Faust. Festus, on a cer- 
tain occasion, falling in with a student, canvasses with him the compar- 
ative merits of the learned professions — this was done before in Faust 
with this difference, that in the latter Lucifer put on Faust's gown and 
played the part for him. Festus and Lucifer conclude to have a horse- 
back ride, and accordingly mounting Ruin and Darkness, gallop around 
the world — but Faust and 'Mephistophiles had before them bestridden 
two black steeds, although GoSthe it is true neglected to mention their 

Such are a few of the resemblances, our limits forbid more. 

If these striking coincidences are all accidental they have no parallel 
in literature, they stand alone and deserve to be recorded. It may be 
said that two men in different parts of the world may produce similar in- 
ventions at the same time, each being ignorant of the other. Very true, 
but that is no plea here — for Faust had been translated into English long 
enough before Festus made its appearance. But it may be replied that 
there is an appearance of unusual originality in the poem, that cannot be 
mere deception. It is not mere deception, and the truth consists in this, 
that the style is peculiar — many of the illustrations new, and of course, 
some scenes are positive creations of the author. Whereas in Faust 
there is a marvelous jumbling of anomalous materials — the various his- 
torical, traditional and mythological curiosities of the world — sirens — 
witches — ^pigmies — ^giants — insects — seven-league boots — Hippocamps — 
and every variety of the human species — all shapes and devices thrown 
upon that mysterious canvass ; in Festus, on the contrary, the characters in- 
troduced are less numerous and multiform, but the same orderless medley 
makes its appearance in the magnificent, uncouth, attractive, repulsive 
imagery — ^figures dragged in and piled up from the whole universe, 
often regardless of time, place, or character. This certainly is novel — 
new — original. Here lies the secret of its power over so wide a class of 
readers ; every body can find something to please his personal taste and 
sentiments, provided, of course, that he 'close his eyes to the other parts. 
Although on examination, we do not discover in this poem an original 
conception of a genius of our own day, but an eeoentrie ramoiMiiig, 

222 FESTU8. [AprQf 

there are some things connected with it which demand the careful con- 
sideration of every lover of refined, progressive literature. Of the moral 
character of the work much has been written, and much more might be; 
and notwithstanding its very religious aspect on first appearance, it is not 
too much to say that when closely viewed, it presents a woful system of 
morals. It shocks most readers of the Scriptures to be told that the ru- 
inous foe of the human race, Lucifer, the arch-fiend himself^ is finally re- 
stored to his primitive brightness and purity. But this part is left to 

All the Literary productions that have come down to us from antiqui- 
ty are monuments cut and polished— -emphatically works of Art There 
is not a single rough and unhewn block left — if there were any they 
have perished by the way. The Epics of Homer gave to Aristotle the 
rules of Epic poetry — the orations of Cicero and the great Athenian are 
the very ideal of elaborate Mosaic. What does all this teach? That if 
we would have our literature transmitted beyond our own generation, it 
must be fitted for transmission and preservation by the hands of skillful 
and indefatigable artists. It should be the care of literary men, that fitlse 
standards of taste are not introduced. Poetic license, and I would not 
circumscribe its limits, nevertheless has bounds which its own nature ha« 
planted, beyond which it destroys itself and " the divine art" dies. Now 
the tendency of Festus is beyond this limit, — the author announces that 
he is a rule unto himself. K he means by this, that nature is his modd 
— very well ; but if he proposes to obey a perverted taste, mistaken for 
genius — not so well. In the midst of much that is splendid, there is 
much that seriously detracts — and on account of the unusual brilliancy 
of some parts, there is the more danger to be apprehended from the de- 
fects. The style is inelegant and unpoetical, — but let that pass. We 
will look at but one thing more — that is the author's very general prac- 
tice of running his most sublime metaphors sub limo. The work is ma^ 
vellous for its imagery. It is like a celebration of fireworks, wheels, 
rockets and flaming devices in blazing, inextricable confusion ; but un- 
fortunately there is often so much in the crowded area, that the beauty 
of the scene is marred. For examples of that notorious step between 
the sublime and ridiculous, the following will suffice : . 

*' I cannot see 
A crowd and not think on the fate of man 

Clinging to error as a dormant bat | 

To a dead bough.'' 

Again, speaking of a statue : * 

1852.] FJ^Tti. • 228 

- — ■ ■ 

** This marble mockery of immortality , 
Which shall outlive the memory of the man, 
And all like him who water earth with blood — 
As eagles outlive gnats." 

In another place : 

" Tea, earth, this earth may foul the face of life. 
Like some swart mole on beauty's breast — 

while thou 

Shalt shine, aye brilliant, on creation's corse , 
Like to a diamond on a dead man's hand." 

And once more speaking of himself as an author : 

'« All turn to me, whenever I speak, full-faced. 
At planets to the sun, or owls to a rush-light." 

By such specimens one is very forcibly reminded of the sudden tran- 
sitions in what is appropriately called machine poetry. Such examples 
are unpardonable in any production professing seriousness, and hoping to 
stand a monument in literature. They are not the faults of genius, but 
of a mind straining after originality and striking figures. This is the 
poem which Ebenezer Elliott says contains poetry enough to set up fifty 
poets — ^but suppose it divided — it would consign to eternal oblivion or 
ridicule as many more who happened to get the blemishes as their poetic 
capital. If it contains so much, why was not the author content 
with what would set up twenty-five, and trying his work by the " pared 
nail," why did he not spare his readers the pain of witnessing so much 
imnecessary deformity. The master spirits of the past are exclaiming to 
the lovers of modem literature, in the language of Horace to the Pisos : 

Carmen reprehenditet quod, 
Presesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 

Never was there more need of vigilance in guarding the golden fleece of 
a pure and elevated literary taste than at this day ; and the attentive may 
gather signs for the future from the final disposition of Festus by the 
reading world. * 

224 MElfORABUlA YALENSIA. [Apillt 

JHemorabUia |{alen0ta. 


Wx kDow 60 little of Gov. Yale's personal history, that every piece of informB- 
tkm coDcemiDg him that can now be recovered, is to us of special interest He was 
bom in the Colooy of New Haven in 1648, and, as supposed, in that part which ii 
•ew the town of North Haven ; and when about ten years old was taken to Eog- 
land. There he was educated, and probably bred to mercantile life. When about 
thirty years of a^e he went to the East Indies and became the Governor of Fort St 
Oeorge, Madras. Having in this position powers so absolute, it would not be mir- 
prising if we should find that he ruled with some seyerity. Here he married the 
rich widow of one of his predecessors, and as might be expected, amassed a laige 
fortune. It is said by Collins, (in his Peerage of England,) that Yale broi^btbome 
euch quantities of goods that he eouidnotfind any house large enough to How them in{\) 
and was therefore obliged to sell them off at public sale, and this (A. D. 1700) 
was the first auction in England. After his return to England he was chosen Got- 
emor of the East India Company. Hearing of the Collegiate School of Cownn^ 
cutf which was now established in his native town, he very wisely resolved to pat- 
ronize it, and accordingly sent over goods, books and money to a liberal amount^ in 
aid of the new College. He died in July, 1721. 

At the Commencement in 1718, the Trustees of the Institution, in testimony of j 
gratitude to their generous benefactor, resolved to designate the large edifice then i 
just completed, by the name of Tale College. This name was gradually transferred I 
to the Institutioo or corporate body, and in the charter of 1746 was adopted and I 
applied by authority. 

The following notices are extracted from letters of Jeremiah Dummer, Esq., agent 
in England for the Colony of Connecticut. Mr. Dummer, acted also as agent fer 
the College and did good service in collecting books for the Library and otberwieft 

The picture of Gov. Yale here mentioned was never received . The full length 

portrait of him in the Picture Gallery of the College was presented in 1789, hy 

Dudley North, grandson of the Governor. b 

Extracts from papers preserved in the Office of State at Sartford, &i 

Jeremiah Dummer, agent of the Colony of Connecticut, at the dose of a letter to 
Gov. Saltonstall, dated London, March 12, 1717-18, writes: 

*' I am endeavoring to get you a present from Mr. Yale, for the finishing joor 
College, of which I shall write you more particularly in a little time." 

In 1719, April 14th, Mr. Dummer writes: 

" I heartily congratulate you upon the happy union of the Colony in fixing th0 
College at New Haven, after some difficulties which might have been attended Tfitb 
ill consequences." ' 

*' Mr. Yale is very much rejoiced at this good news ; and more than a little 
pleased with his being patron of such a seat of the Muses ; saving that he expresi- 
ed at first some kind of concern whether it was well in him, being a churchman, to 
promote an Academy of Dissenters. But when he had discoursed the point fireelj 
he appeared convinced that the business of good men is to spread religion and 
learning among mankind without being too fondly attached to particular tenets 

1852.] MEMORABILIA TALSl^A. 235 

about which the world never was nor ever will be agreed. Besides, if the disci- 
pline of the Church of England be most agreeable to Scripture and primitive 
practice, there is no better way to make men sensible of it than by giving them good 

' Mr. Yale's picture at full length, with his nepihews on the same canvM, k drawn 
for t present to your OoUege Hall, and he will send you by the tame conveyance «a- 
other parcel of books, part of which he has promised me shall be the Royal Trai»< 
actions, in 17 volumes. He proposed sending you a pair of Globes, but when I told 
him you had two pair already, we agreed that in lien of them you shall have some 
mathematical instruments and glasses for making philosophical experiments, as 
fflieroscopes, telescopes, and other glasses for use, atf well as for ornament and eori* 

" I have some books and other things for you of my own collectioQ which I wiu 
either put up separately or pack them with what Mr. Yale sends." 

Again, Oct. 1, 1780, Mr Dummer writes: 

" Mr. Yale makes me many apologies for having done no&ing for your OoUege 
tiui summer and jHromisea to make ample amends by the first ship. 

"I have also great hopes that youll have a share in Mr. Hollis*s bounty wbid) 
hsi hitherto been confined to Harvard college." 

Another letter dated Feb. 25, 1720>21, he writes : 

" I visited Mr. Hollis and delivered him the letter you sent me for him ; and afteih' 
wards read to him a paragraph out of your letter to me on the same subjeet, with 
both which he was extremely well pleased. His answer was that he had not yc(t 
Bnished what he had intended to do for Harvard college, and till then he oo/uld hot 
go upon any new design. I am satisfied youll find him a benefactor ere long. 

Mr. Yale has shipped a hundred pounds sterling in goods for your college. TiuBt 
bowever, is but half what Mr. Yale protnised me a month ago, when he assured me 
be would remit you 200 lbs. sterling per annum during his life, and make a settled 
urnual provision to take place after his death. But old gentlemen are forgetful I 
vas with him last night to refresh his memory about the books, pictures and othei* 
presents which I formerly mentioned to you, and to see if they could be ready to gd 
▼ith the goods, but it seems they won*t be in order 'till a month hence. ' I shall b6 
glad if they are ready then." 

March 8, 1722-23, Mr. Dummer writes: 

** The suit in Doctors Commons about the Legacy to Yale College goes on well, 
b the main. There is indeed one unfovorable circumstance attending it that the 
prasmble to the will and the schedule were distinct papers, and found in diiGFerent 
places. This will be an objection, but I believe not strong enough to hinder ,tbQ 

July 22, 1628, Mr. Dummer writes: 

" I am still m the Commons about Got< Yale*s will ; because the sons-in-law use 
erery art of delay. 1 have received twelve pounds more from Mr. Ashnrst I seni 
yon some prints. I long to have somebody oome over from Mr. Beard, or else we 
AiH lose the estate." 

VOL. XVII. 29 



Deforest fund. 

David 0. DeFobest, Esq., haviog in the year 1823, presented to the College eor 
pormtioa the fum of Five Thoasaod Dollars, ^rhich xras to be placed at interest till 
1862, when it would amonnt to about twenty-six thousand dollars, and the doostioQ 
having now attained that amount, and being about to take effect^ — ^we reprint tlM 
imtrument of the donor by which he made this gift. 

The regulation for the present year in regard to the '* DeForest Prise," is that 
every member of the Senior class shall compete for the Medal, by writing on sodi 
a snbf act as he may himself select These essays are to be presented oo the 16th 
of May, and several of the best will be selected by the Faculty to be spoken in pob- 
lie daring the month of May or June. One of these will then be selected for ths 
Prize. This year, moreover, the second best oration will entitle its author fo a 
Clarke Prixe of Fifteen dollars. 

** ToiHs OoupoEATKnr OF Yaub OoLuav nc Nxw Hivnr, GomnBoncDT : 

" David C. DeForxst, 'bom in the parish of Ripton, town of Hnntfaig^too, fonBe^ 
ly part of Stratford, and State of Connecticut, on the tenth day of Jaouaiy, obs 
thousand seven hundred and seventy-four, son of Benjamin DeForest, who was sks 
son of Benjamin DeForest, of Stratford, aforesaid ; all descended from a Frescfa 
Huguenot, whose name was De la Forest, and one of three brothers, who, being 
protestanta, fled from France to HolUnd at the revocation of the edict of Naiiti» 
and thence to New Amsterdam, now New York : 

** Flroposes^ to deliver and pay over to the Treasurer of Yale College, en or before 
the first day of October next, the sum of Five Thousand Dollars, being a sum of 
nxAey which was intended for his much respected and beloved Mother, Mrs. He- 
hitable Lockwood, aged seventy-two years, and for more than thirty years last past 
a resident of . Watertown, in Litchfield county, in said State. This proposal she de- 
clined accepting, her own situation and that of her sons being such, in her opinioOi 
as to render it unnecessary, and hence the propriety of placing it in such a situatioii 
as to remain safe and useful to her posterity, and at the same time aid your hi^y 
▼aluable Institutioo. 

** This sum is to remain in the hands of the Corporation, an accumulating toad, 
at their own risk ; which at six per cent annual interest, say from October first, one 
thousand eight hundred and twenty-three, to January first, one thousand eight biin- 
dred and fifty-two, being twenty-eight and one quarter years, will amount to the 
sum of twenty-five thousand nine hundred and forty-one dollars, eighty cents snd 
six mills ; the annual income of which thereafter wUl be one thousand five hundred 
and fifty-six dollars. 

** The Corporation or their Assigns, upon the receipt of said sum of five thott* 
sand dollars, are to execute a proper instrument binding themselves and their mcr 
eessors to expend annually, forever, after the said first day of January, one'tbounn^l 
eight hundred and fifty-two ;— 

•* Fuit, one thousand dollars in the education and support at Yale College, cr the 
University that may grow out of it, of the male descendants of Mrsi Mshltsbl0 
Lockwood, via: 

'* Of the male descendants of David C. DeForest of New Haven, J<te H. DeFor- 


eat, of HumphreyBTille, in New Haven oonitty, Benjunin ]>eFore8t,of Watertowii« 
and £zra DeForest, of Huntington, all of the State of Connecticut; and alM 
the sons of the female children of David 0. and JiUia DeFbrest, his wife, formerly 
Julia Wooster, of Huntington aforesaid, but to descend in this line no further. In 
defiuilt of descendants, as aforesaid, the said sum to be applied to the education of 
others of the name of DeForest, giving preference to the next of kin of the donor ; 
and in default of candidates of the name of DeForest, the said sum to be applied 
to the education of yc^ng men in indigent circumstances, and of good talent, who 
are willing to assume the name of DeForesi In the selection of candidates fo^ tbtf 
bounty herein provided, the Religious or Politieal opinions of thenxselres or their 
funilies shall not operate against or for them in any case ; but a preference shall 
always be given to those who are of moral and virtuous conduct ; and it is left 
wholly at the discretion of the Corporation of Yale College to make the selection. 

** And secondly, to procure to be made annually a €k>ld Medal, of the value of one 
hondred dollars, to be denominated the DeForest Priae;.with anch inseriptioo tbere* 
oD as the President shall direct; to be given to that sdiolar of the Senior Claaa 
who shall write and proooonoe an English Oration in the bert manner, on aomo day 
in either of the months of May or June in each year c-<-the President and Pra^ 
fymon being judges, and eveiy member of the Semoc Class, a candid»te for ithe 

It ia calculated that the provision of one thouaand dollars first made wiUsuppofi 
and educate four Scholars in each year ; but as this may depend on the valoe^ of 
money and other articles, nothing definite can be determined. It muat therefore 
be left to the discretion of the Corporation in. the faithful ezecntion. of this trust. >. 

** It ia expected and required of the Corporation, that they will give due notice in 
tbePoblic Newspapers or otherwise of this provision, and of such vaean^ee aa may 
oecor, with suitable explanations, at least once in each year. 

*' Aa i^ is possible the sums annually provided may accumulate in the handa of 
the Corporation for want of candidates, of proper age, or for other reaaooa, the 
Oerporation will allow for the use of such money, three per cent per annum to 4» 
api^ied to the principal, and expended for the purpoeea herein'before mentionad. 
"BnX the Corporation are strictiy enjoined, not jto permit at any time a sum larger 
than Five Thousand dollars to remain in their hands unexpended in the way* 
above designated. 

New Haven, September Ninth, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-three. 


In presence of — 

Roger Shesman Skinner, 
Chauncet a. Goodrich. 


A Gold Medal, — ^the Prize of the Yale Literary Magazine,-r>awarded in last De- 
MAber, to Andrew D. Whtte, of Syracuse, N. Y., for the beat of eleven oompoai- 
^ions submitted to a committee, has just been completed and delivered to its owner. 

It is of a ckcular form, nearly two inches in diameter, with ita edge* cQabont^y 


duHed. Od tlieobY€rte,Biirn)uiidingftbeftiitiMpietiire<if the 
41m words, 


Merito ae Jure. 

Talk Ck>LLKQS, 1851." 

On the reTene a balance is repreteoted in which the Pen weighs down tin 
Sword beneath the cap of Libertj, denoting of course that where tbore is fireedom, 
ifM Pen is mightier than the Sword Around this, are the words^ 

MeriU PramkmC 


Tbb ibQowing reeolntions have been handed to us ibr publication. They were 
called forth hj the eodden ilfaiess ci Prof. Norton, and his consequent dspaitnrsiBf 
the Sooth, and wers usannnouslj adopted at a large meeting of his pupila in Agii- 
coltoral Ohsmisirjy-^iDeludittg the members of the Scientiftp School, and wmj 
membenof theSenior Class. 

' WkereMf^iS^ relation latelj existing between Prof J<»if P. Noairmr tnd oar 
selyes, as Instructor and Pupils, has been unexpectedly suspended because of bh 
mKMen illness ; — 

Retched, That we, the members of his class in Agricultural Ohemistry, do henArf 
expi u ss our heartfelt gratitude to htm, not only for the yaluaUe information we 
have aequttvd firom his teachings, but also for the many hours rendered pleasant liy 
Ms Inoid and foidble expositions of the great principles of his finrorite sdenee, his 
axteosire knowledge of the Agriculture of our own and foreign oountties, and )k 
uniformly kind and courteous ^meaner towards all with whom he has been aaeo- 

ReKiiMd^ That belieriqg, as we do, that his efforts to promote the adyanosmcol 
ol all that ennobles and elerates the culture of the soil haTO been eminsntly beM* 
Hcial la the paat^ and promise to be eren more so in the fotnre, we express oar m 
dent desire that he may long be spared to continue his labors in this great field <f 

Resolved, That we deeply sympathize with him in his affliction and sinesrsly usite 
with his family and friends in their wishes for bis speedy recovery and safe retunto 
his home. 

JtHohedt That these resolutions be signed by us and presented to Prof. Kortoo 
by the President of the meeting. 



In the summer of 1860, Mr. Wic. D. Bishop, a graduate linonian of the daesof 
1849, instituted in this Society, a Priae Debate— hy giving to the Society the eoD 
alase thousand dollars to be invested in 7 per cent Railroad bonds, and the inteieiA 
dMs arising to be distrtbuted into prizes as follows: two first Priaee of W *^ 
enasennad Priaeof $16, and one third Priae of |6. One of the first Ihriaes most be 


twwded to a member of the Frethmm eUuB. Sophomore and Frethmati may 
ooopete for the others For the regulatioiis for coodocting the debate we qtiole 
tk iaogoage of the ordinal docameD%. ** Fiye linooian gnuiiiateB ahall be choeen 
by tbe Society by ballot and their names pat by the Secretary into a box hotik 
▼iuoh the President shall draw oot indificriminately three who shall oonetitate ft 
committee to hear the discussion and award the Prizes, their decision being biwed 
npoD the argument^ the style and tbe delivery. Each disputant shall have the prlT' 
ilege of speaking but once, and of occupying but twenty minutes. Those who are de. 
sirous of competing for the Prizes shall hand in their names to the JPresident at least 
one week previous to the discussion. The chairman of the committee shall call 
upon the disputants by lot, and each disputant shall immediately respond to h!a 
mme, or be debarred the privilege of taking part in the debate. The discussioik 
shall take place during the last half of the second term of the college year." The 
paper proceeds to state in what manner the question shall be chosen, but as the 
dooor is about to change this clause we will omit it for the present. 
' On the 2d of March, 1861, in acoordance with the above provisions, the first con- 
test took place in the Hall of the Society, Hon. Ralph L IngeisoU, Prof. Noah Porter, 
and Wm. H. Russell, Esq., being tbe committee of award. About twenty individuals 
eatered the lists as competitors, the following of whom were successful : Auous- 
TD8 S. Hitchcock of the Freshman class, obtained the prize confined to that class. 
The other three were awarded to the Sophomores. The first was awarded to An- 
ntxv J. WiLLAAD, the second to Ohablss L. Thomas and the third to ALBsaT E. 


Ob Wednesday afternoon, March 24th, conmienced the second annual debate for 
the Bishop Prjizes. Twenty -five speakers had handed in their namea the week pre- 
▼ioas, all but one of whom responded to the call of the committee. The discussion 
was continued with about two hours intermission until 12, P. M. On the following 
Wednesday evening the committee, consisting of Hon. "Wm. W. Boardman, Rev. 
8. W. S. Dutton, and F. L. Hodges, Esq., reported that they had awarded the Fresh- 
man Prize to Lewis E. Stakton , and tbe remaining three to Sophomores, the first to 
Wm. ii Fbnn, the second to Luzon B. Moa&is and the third to Jambs K, Hill. The 


oommittee expressed in their report, their " high gratification at the ability with 
which the whple debate was conducted, reflecting as it did great honor on the coip- 
petitoEB and also rendering it no easy task to deside upon the most meritorious.'* 


We are authorized to say that the plans for the new building to bf erected upoa 
Qollege grounds, with Halls for the Linonian, Brothers and Oalliopean Societies^ are 
■low in the hands of the mason and joiner, and that as soon as the contracts can hm 
Completed, the ground will be broken and the building commenced. The plana bava 
lot been materially changed since last Commencement The edifice is to be placed 
ust west of Divinity College, on the comer of High and Elm streets, is to be 
Hull of Portland F^estooe, and will be about lOO feet by 60 in its dimensions. 
Dhe lower floor will contain a Hall for general college uses and the upper stmfj 
rill ba devoted to the three Society Halls, — ^those of the Linooians and Brothers 
Boasuriog about 48 feet by 36. The various societies we now ooUacting theursub- 
fBipticas and the members .may soon expect to see ■omething more than " qm- 
les in the air.'' 




Webopethmt,wheotheioteiior arraD^^oiieiiti aod ftunitYire of the roomooiBe 
jxp tot eoondaration, tome better place will be provided for tbedeliTCiy of ontkn, 
oompoeitiona, and written pieoea generallj, tbui what ia now poweaeed bj titlar 
of the three aocietiea. The front of the building will be nearly like that nfn- 
aented in the plan which for aome time paat haa been diapUjed in the Oolhf» 


On Wedneaday eyening, March 10th, an Oration waa deUrered in the BrodMn 
Society, by Charles £. Yanderbnrg of the Senior Claaa. Hia subject was, Jobv J. 

On Wednesday eYening, March Slst, Daniel R. Empeon, deliTered an oratkn is 
the Calliopean Society, on the Powib of Nature oyem, tbk Huxan Muroi 


Hie fifth and last Election of the collegiate year waa held in the Sodetiei oo 
Wednesday evening, April 7 th, with the following result : 

M. Smith, 


H. T. HoiT, 
W. R WimmER. 

Brotheri in Unity, 

li. C. Chapik, 

Vice PrtHd^ntK 
0. D. Skroptak, 

A. L. TaAnf, 

Vice Secretariei, 


y. Marmadukk 
F. Mn.T.KM, 


J. T. SHAKiLroms. 


This year another addition is to bemade to theusualezerciseaof OomtnsDMBMit 
week. Hie Law Students have voted, at the suggestion of their Professors, toboU 
a Qommencement and have selected speakers for the occasion. So we shall htfs- 
«fber have the pleasure of listening each year to a series of disqoisitioDs oo^if- 
aumpsit," '^Trover,** and "Contingent Remainders,'' which will at least be as interest- 
ing as the essays on ** Progress," " Purpose," and '* True Greatness," invarisUy 
sp<>ken annually by graduatii^ Seniors. 

The following are the speakers: Curtiss H. Busfanell, Robert Coit» Samoal £ 
Field, Edward M. Jerome, Nathan A. Lee, George Rice, William K. Seeley, Joispb 


On Tuesday evening, April 6th, Prof Arnold Guyot, now of Cambridge, Miifc 
addressed by invitation, our Senior Class, the officers of College, and aome of thi 
reddent graduates upon the Philosophy of History. For nearly two hours be hiM 
the closest attention of hka audience by the depth and eloquence of his thot^ghtL Sm 
took a geaeralaunrey of the pvogress of dviliaatioo from the eaiiiMt days to tkt 

1863.] bditob's tabls. 231 

present time, diriding history into distinct epochs, each of whidi was marked hj 
some peculiar principle of development, and through all of which the advancement 
of Hie human race could be distinctly discerned. 

We are not aware whether he is generally willing to lecture in this way, but if 
he could be induced to visit several of our colleges he would be the means of con- 
Teyiog great pleasure and profit to the students therein assembled. We hope that 
iQoeeeding Senior classes here will be able to hear him still more at length, than 
tfw Emits ol a angle lecture will allow. All who heard him on this recent lecture 
were delighted at the time, and will long remember the profound generalizations by 
idnji Prof. Guizot so clearly exhibits the constant development of the Human 
aoe. History has now, in our minds, a definiteness which it never before possesBed. 

(fflrttor*0 ftable. 

As soon as we realized that another number of the ' Mag. * must appear this term, 
^ began to get up 'a leader.' The printer's cry of *'copyl copyl** sounded in 
<>i]r ears, and yet there were so many tastes to be consulted among onr varione 
reMlers, that we were sorely puzzled as to what to send him. 

We b^^ to look over our papers and see what there was among them, and toon 
Came across a certain parcel of society ezerdaes in which we once took a pride, and 
^Ueh we hoped might be of avail in this our present emergency. 'They would suit 
perhaps the tastes of those who like ** sound-writing," meaning by that something dry 
Hid unreadable. But then there was one objection, — they had all been heard be- 
tore, and such kind of articles, if the fact of their previous use is detected, are 
Bipe|ralar. We. next came across a pile of compositioiis, and began to read them 
>y their titles. There were essays on the " Progress of Truth," ** on the present 
Tstam of CoDege Education," <* on the Destiny of Man," *< the Connection of Sci- 
ttoe and Religion," and so on, all discussed in Division Boom style, and meant to 
te very fine. Some of them, written in Sophomore year, were meant to be eape> 
laQy fine, and as the Tutors are the only persons who listen to such performances, 
^ thought it would be safe to print some one of the best, for no. one woold know 
bhMl ever been used before. But the old compositions did seem almost musty 
Hth age, and we could not make up our minds to use them. 

We looked through our portfolio for something fanciful or humorous, ba<| every- 
biog which would even approach to that description had some local bearing which 
^ould not be understood, and we almost gave up in despair. 

Oor next thought was that after all we were very foolish to be so particular 
hoot what would never be reoui ; that we could not expect better treatment than 
Hism bad met before us; and that the best way was alter all to write on just such 
4^feoi as salted ourselves, and send it to the printer. We advise all future edttoni 
» do the same. 

3S2 bditob's tabu. [Apft 

Our attentioo has been called to an artide to the **N€U€ Jahrkudurfwr FhU- 
logieund Padagogih^ Vol. 64, Pt. 1, published at Leipsic in December lait, imi 
lately received at the College Library, in which Herr Hermann Winmier <tf Draaka^ 
who recently Tisited some of the colleges of this country, has gifan the reralteot 
hif obeervations. 

We thougbt at firtt that a translation of it would entertain oar readtn^ bntuil 
woald occupy some eight or ten pages of oar finest print, and as most of his stats' 
ments are matters of fact and not of opinion, so that oar readers wonld not kaa 
Tery much that is new, we are obliged to forbear. 

The intelligent writer was engaged for a whila as an loBtmctsr at Ambersit snd 
afterwards risated this instttutioo. Here he attsoded a leoture to the Senkn, sod 
recitations of the Juniors and Freshmen. Our own class we believe were theJunion 
at that time, and we are sure they would be amused at the account he gives of the 
recitation in Gk>rgias *'to a Tutor, that is, an Adjunct," who he thinks had no occa- 
sion to speak more than sixty words during the whole recitation. Although our Ger- 
man visitor was present at a time when we were engaged on those memorable 
grammatical analyses, he pays the class a compliment for the accuracy and gliboess 
of their recitations. We pretume he heard the ' third division F He also attended 
a recitation in Cicero by the same dass, which was confined, he says, to an sccurate 
and elegant [eine richtige und geechmcuskvoUel translation of the text 

Ha visited also one of the Literary Societies, but whidi ha does not stats. Tbe 
fuestion for discussion was whether Catholics ought to be allowed to hcAd pnblie 
affioes in our oountry. He speaks of the speadies of tbe eight prepared disputsnU 
and then of the older membcn present being called out to speak extemponuMow 
ly. Ha thinks that in respect to the question he heard discusaed, our love for sqoal- 
ity of rights in the State, conquered our enthusiasm for Protestantism. 

In regard to writing, he calls attention to the Tale Literary Jiagaaine, thes is 
its suteenth volume, and says it contains much matter which is [l\hhtigundLBf 
etmoerth] valuable and worth reading I Much obliged to you, eir, for tbe notioi i 
We think of appointing you our agent in Ckrmany, and of requesting you totrsss- 
mit the subsoriptions regularly upon the reoeiptof the tUrd number. Ko cofm^ 
liversd to delinquent subscribers ! 

Herr Wtmmer shows a more accurate knowledge of odUege affurs than fordgoc* 
asually do, and his various observations will well repay the reading of thoM wbs 
JDmUtek tprethtm. 

We happened in, not many evenings since, upon a parlor eirde^ where the petf 
were moving briskly and the eyes were sparkling brightly, as if some very pIsM- 
ant tasks were being then performed. 

We had some hesitation in remaimng in a cirde of sach engagements, but 800^' 
bow or other a pencil and paper got quietly slipped toward our side of tbe tsUtff 
and we could not resist the temptation to stay and do as the otliefa were dcing. 

We were told that the recent " mysterious knockings* had revealed some jbh- 
vellous foets concerning departed authors ; that Wordsworth was now stopping ^ 
a public house which was kept by 'one John Bunyan,' a tinker, formeriy of fov^ 
what wide renown; that these and other ghosts had Tolnataartd to eon(Bnstb«r 

editor's tablc. 288 

I in supplj^ing the world with reading ; and that a few w«U direotod taps of 
pointed pencil upon a epotlesa sheet of letter paper, by aoybody in **ciMm^ 
tion" with these spirits, would bring to the said sheet of pi|>er a nenr aiid 
article by some lamented author. 

ourselves, could not get into the vein of communication, but almost all of 
lie did, and Virgil, Swedenbourg, Poe,Oarlyle, and even Mother GkxMe, wo'e 
ituming responses. Mrs. Hemans, moreover, was roused from her usual 
nd just to give an example of the way that the ghosts responded, we shall 
to add her very latest poem, in the measure of Oasabianca. We think it is 
her best' But unless our readers are familiar with the fiEicts on which it is 
1, we advise them to glance at one of the early chapters in Dickens's Oliver 


(Founded on Fact) ^ 


The boy stood with his wooden bowl, 

Whence all his meal had fled, 
The wish that lit his inmost soul 

On his pale face, was read. 

And pleadingly and firm he stood, 

As bom to ** rule the roast,** 
Yet, since he lived on parish food. 

As lank as any post 

The boy stood still — he would not go 

Without his bowl was filled — 
The empty bowl, as well as *' 0,** 

By lickings daily drilled. 

He called aloud, ^'More I Bumble, more I 

I haven't done by half,'* — , 

Then plainly through the open door 

Came Mrs. Oomey's laugn. 

*' More ! Bumble," yet again he cried, 

*' Please, Master, give me more l" 
The eyes of Bumble opened wide, 

By Dickens, how he swore 1 

And from the boys a stifled shout 

Rung through the cheerless room, 
And much the urchins squirmed about 

In thinking of his doom. 

Their peaked faces gave a ffrin, 

Each clenched his bony fist, 
And though they knew it was a sin 

They cried out—" Go it. Twist I" 

At last — ^there came a thunder sound. 

The boy — Oh, where was he t 
Ask of the winds that far around 

Echoed with—" Oh— dear— toe !** 

The nice Committee shook its head. 

They turned him out — to clover. 
And Mr. Bumble often said — 

»' Twas Oliver— all-over." > 

. xvn. 29 

234 sditob's tabls. [April, 

W« faftT* rMcrr^d the following ca]Mtal ' hit' on the First of Mmy Mignttkmi, it 
too kite an hoar to give it an earlier place. We always did think ^t ' April fbol*i 
di^ was the fint of ICay, and we are no lest sure of it, now that we ire agaio 
reminded of the troubles of that day. 

TH« mST or MIT. 

Tired of hearing, tired of lifting, 
Tired of shoying and of shifting, 
And having shaiken off the sifling 

Of that awful dusty day, 
I had dropped upon the floor 
On a blanket, nothing more. 
And had just begun to snore 

In my osual quiet way. 

I was done with fuming, fretting, 
Scratching, bruising, panting, sweating, 
Even wife and baMS forgetting, 

I was almost sound asleep. 
When I heard a sudden crashmg, 
A tumbling and a smashing. 
Like the loud, sonorous cruhing 

Of crockery in a heap ! 

So I made immediate snatches 
For the missing box of matchea^ 
And after many scratches, 

I at last obtained a Ik^ht ; 
When, near my head, a mirror — 
I am glad it fell no nearer-— 
There my fifty-dollar mirror, 

All in pieces, met my sig^t I 

Then and there, upon that floor, 
I took my oath and swore 
That again I'd never more 

" Move" upon the First of May ; 
And though wife each year endeavor 
To move a^ain, TU never. 
Though I hve forever, never 

Move again the First of May. 


Among the items of College talk during the last few weeks, has been the manriag* 
of one of our fellow-students, a member of the Sophomore class. As might ha^s 
been expected, the event has cansed a great deal of fun around College, and among 
other things, the young man's claasmates have had a meeting to express their «p^' 
pathies with him upon so important an occasion. 

We have been requested to print the resolutions which were passed at that meet- 
ing, and are willing to do so, although we have looked in vain for the usual prioter ' 
fee — ^a piece of the bridal cake. Mr. H. Hunt was chairman of the meeting, ^ 
the resolutions were presented by Mr. A. H. Tracy. They are as follows : 

852.] fiDITOR^S TABLK. 235 

Whirkas, In the course of College eyents, it hath pleased Cupid toremoye from 

IT midst a beloyed friend and classmate, by sending bis arrows mtoour Ho{l)me§ — 

Retolved, That while we deeply regret his loss from our ranks, still we can but 

Dgratolate him upon that change of life, which now is better Plumbed to his 


Resolved, That as friends to the increase of the yast brood already sheltered be* 

ath the far spreading wings of the American Eagle, and as earnest loyers of 

nntry, we congratulate the nation upon this act, which has bound a first-rate fel- 

w by the choicest ties to the public welfare. 

Reiolved, That in consideration of the crying evils which naturally result from 

ch unions, we present him with a cradle^ which, like the purse of Fortunatus, we 

nst may neyer be empty. 

Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be transmitted to our friend, and to the 

ess for publication. 

We cannot close our Number without alluding to the courtesy which we haye 
Diformly receiyed during the year that is past, from our Publisher, Mr. Maltby, and 
le young men who act as his clerks. It ought to be known to the Students, that 
T. Maltby has no pecuniary interest in the Magazine, and that he acts as our Pub- 
»ber, Agent, Ac, without consenting to receive any pecuniary compmisatioD what- 
rer, — a fayor which we are happy to acknowledge, and which, as a benefit not only 
> 08 but also to all of our readers, we presume the Students generally will be glad 
) reciprocate, so far as it is in their power. 

To CoaaESPONDEMTs AVD fizcBANOiB. — We hare reoetved from a graduate cor- 
ispondent some lines upon the Aurora Borealis — which we had intended to publish 
I the present number. He tells us that they are *' by the belle of Eastern Connecti- 
it," and we therefore the more regret that our number is otherwise so full that it 
out of our power to make them public within the reach of our College bell. We 
&ve been obliged to forego the publication of various other matters which had been 
repared for press. 

'* W. A. D.,'' of Due West, South Carolina, has volunteered to procure us subscri- 
ers in Erksine College. We trust he will be successful, and that we shall soon re* 
iive a long list of South Carolinian readers. At any rate we shall thank him for 
is efforts. The remittances may be made directly to the editors. 
** J. G., Jr.," of Eenyon College — is informed that he can be supplied with what 
e desires. We wish he would do as our other '* Due West" friend has done, — en- 
etvor to extend the knowledge of our publication to others who are near him, and 
' poauble induce them to subscribe. 

Our College exchanges received the past month have been the Randolph, Macoo, 
(sgazine, The Stylus, and the North Carolina University Magazine. 

We have also received the speech of Senator Douglass, on the Compromise meas- 
ures, and an electioneering " life of Sam Houston." 

IB&aATA. In the haste of proof- reading some errors of the printer escaped oor- 
^wtioo. On the 208th page, sixth line from the end of the article on College life, 
the word '* here" should precede *' been trained." In the same sentence the word 
" ihair is used several times instead of " will." The author had this right 




Editors of the Class of 1852. 


IE members of this Institution have, in years past, felt the 
ssity of a College Magazine, and experience has taught 
essive generations that its effects are beneficial. It is per- 

needless to say that the original and legitimate object of 
Periodical is to give expression to such wholesome and 
ly sentiments as observation within Academic walls may 
est. It should be devoted to the interests, pleasure and 
t of our little College world, and if, heretofore, the Yale 
has failed to please, it has been because these objects have 

e have, through the kindness of our Classmates, been called 

to assume the responsibility of conducting this Magazine, 
to perform the still more arduous task of satisfying our- 
s, and endeavoring to please all. However much we may 
hort of perfection, we are confident that our theory of its 
acter will meet your approbation, and we assure you that 
hall faithfully strive to make theory and practice correspond, 
bile we ask your kind consideration, we must remind our 
ers that they also have duties to discharge. We ask frpm 
that cooperation which has ever been rendered. We hope 
11 be freely given, and assure you that it will be thankfully 
ived. We desire you, in whatever assistance you may 
. to remember the character and objects of the Yale Lit. 

L. XVII. 31 


Half distrustful of our success, we push our little editorial' 
bark from the shore, hoping, for your sake as well as our owiif 
that prosperous breezes will waft us on, that sunshine will glad- 
den our way, and that when we have crossed our narrow seii 
we may have the gratification of feeling that we have answered 
our own hopes and your expectations. 

We enter upon our labors, trusting that your sympathy will. 
manifest it^lf, both in word and deed. 

Very respectfully, yours, 








Vol-. XVIL JUNE, 1852. No. VII. 

Tebbb are crises in individual experience. Then the destinies of men 
'. torn upon pivots. Then seeming certainties prove delusions, the wildest 
: dreams become realities, or great and Unexpected events loom out from 
t the mists of the future. Days of strange successes, or irremediable re- 
j. Yenes — ^when fortune smiles, or frowns — when the finger of chance erases 
8 what our hopes or fears had written — when anticipation ripens into expe- 
I rience, or a new future is unfolded. 

i". "Few lives are unrelieved by decisive periods. Human existence is rarely 
r A plain, stretching monotonously onward to the Great Ocean. The path 
f of destiny leads through diversity. Now vine-clad hills gladden the way 
f ^— now bleak precipices or mountain peaks tower in the wildness of des- 
^ olation against the sky of the future. None can tell when the great days 
i of life shall come. The spell of uncertainty hangs over us. The hope 
\ that cheers us may prove an illusive ignis fatuus. The prospective evil 
may be but the mere vision of a morbid imagination. Even while the 
prescience of some coming good fortune inspires us, calamity may tread 
oloee in our footsteps. Blessings as well as misfortunes very often ap- 
proach us in disguise. In an hour we think not of, success or ruin may 
fidl upon us. Fortune keeps her own secrets. No tell-tale whispers from 
her lips fill the ears of men. Her oracles are only delivered with the 
ambiguous certainty of Pythian responses. She comes, and goes, and 
none can guess why, or whence, or whither. There are great crises in 
individual history. Hours which stamp their impress upon the whole fu- 
ture. When strong efforts work out lasting successes, and when inaction 
I produces permanent ruin. 

240 GREAT DAVP. [June, 

" There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 
Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
Is bound in shallows and in misery/' 

There were hours in the life of Napoleon which gained, or saved his 
empire. A day lost it forever. Empire is not the destiny of all, yet 
most men have a miniature Austerlitz or Waterloo in their experience. 
Days in individual experience are great, because in them success has been 
realized, ruin consummated, or splendid opportunities neglected— be- 
cause they have been the arbiters of the future. 

There are great days too in the world's history. Points in which yeare, 
often ages, of the past culminate. Days which lay the foundation upon 
which the history of future centuries shall stand. They are the axes on 
which great destinies revolve. They revolutionize the intellectual, moral, or 
social world. They are remembered because their influence is ever felt by 
men. They seem like suns in time, casting no rays backward, but beam- 
ing forth into the future with a dazzling brilliancy. They are points 
where magic fingers touch the page of history, and new chapters begin. 

Every day is really great. Every day carries an untold influence into 
the future. Time is never stationary — never idle. Hidden forces are 
ever at work beneath us in their mysterious caverns, ripening their 
strength for the day when the old earth shall quake and yawn, and the 
Etnean flames and lava shall burst forth with their quenchless fury. The 
destinies of mankind are hastening on to some great, unknown goal, and 
every h^ur has its progress. Every day brings its burden of strange and 
unexpected revelations. But there are occasions when springs of action 
and influence, which have gathered from many past ages a resistless en- 
ergy, wake to action with all the force of concentrated power, and old 
foundations, which seemed to men eternal, are upheaved and destroyed. 
Then the advocates of old theories stand in utter dismay over the ruins 
of their proudest structures. Then the venerable temples, where the tro- 
phies of the past are hung, crumble, and not one stone of their noble 
fabric is left above another. Then the priesthood of human knowledge 
is confounded. 

There are great days in the scientific world. New thoughts do not 
often creep sluggishly along in the courses which the flow of old ideas 
has hollowed out They come gushing forth from their fountains, and 
seek new channels for themselves They burst, in some happy moment, 
in upon the vision of the thinker. Old truisms are exploded. Old dog- 
mas are annihilated. Men distrust their own judgment. They ca^ 
scarcely credit their own blindness. Even when such results come as the 

1852.] GREAT DATS. 241 

— r ■■ ■ 

fruit of long and earnest toil, there is an hour when the patient student 
catches a glimpse of the great issues before him — a day when the world 
wakes to the truth. Men of learning and science will not soon forget the 
ever memorable day, when the falling apple caught the eye of the phi- 
losopher, and called his mind from its sublime conceptions to the casual 
observance of a phenomenon, the explanation of which solved the enig- 
ma of the heavens. That was a holiday for human intellect, and not un- 
til that theory is proved false, will it fade from remembrance. The day 
which gave birth to the discovery and application of the • great motive 
power of our age, dates a new era in human history. The day which 
witnessed Fulton's triumph over popular prejudice and incredulity, was 
one of pride for the humble mechanic — of rejoicing to every friend of 
progress. So every branch of science which tends to exalt mankind has 
its anniversaries. 

There are great crises in political history. Often the fate of nations, 
sometimes of the world, has hung suspended upon the occurrences of a 
few hours. Deeds have been consummated in a day, the social influence 
of which will be coexistent with the race. Occasionally a few men of 
keen vision, have foreseen something of the future, and have hung with 
breathless suspense upon the issue. Usually, however, the importance of 
the crisis has been felt only in the results. Csesar, with his legions, upon 
the bank of the Rubicon, held in his grasp the fate of Rome, and an in- 
fluence in the civil destinies of many coming ages, and he decided them. 
On the 15th of June, 1215, at the sunny meadow of Runnemede, a 
^>and of martial barons, with stern determination in their bold and hon- 
^ English hearts, met to deal with a cruel and treacherous monarch. 
Their just demands, their immutable firmness, cowed the craven heart of 
John, and that day gave a reality to English liberties, a birth to Britain's 
^Dapire. There is a day in modern history, which men will not forget. 
Stern men had gathered together. A great emergency had called them 
from their homes. That was a plebeian conclave. They sat in no prince- 
V hall. No long line of ancestral monarchs, nobles, heroes and war- 
'lors looked down from canvas or marble niches to hallow the actions 
of those men by the sanction of their presence. No kingly equipage 
^as there. No high officers, with regal credentials, sat amid stately 
Magnificence, to preside over their deliberations. There was no marahal- 
^of guards — no clashing of knightly armor — no warlike music ringing 
out its clarion notes upon the air — no titled dames, to encourage princely 
lovers with their inspiring presence — no orators engaged in the useless 
display of forensic eloquence. Heroes, it is true were there, but the fa- 

242 GREAT DATS. [JunO, 

ture was thoir field. Warriors were there, but they wore no armor.-' Ge- 
nius was there, but she bowed to the omnipotence of the occasion. Ora- 
tors were there, but their eloquence was hushed by the greatness of the 
coming crisis. Noble dames often turned their anxious thoughts thither, 
but they were not of man^s nobility. A nation was turning its eyes to 
that hour and that spot, for its destinies were then and there to be de- 
cided. Influences which were to flow on down through the fields of time, 
oniy to be lost in the great gulf of eternity, were to emanate from that 
point Posterity, to the remotest time, was to look back to that occa- 
sion, and feel its effects. The past, too, was looking down upon that as- 
sembly. Its old institutions were to crumble and totter to the quaking 
of new theories. The past was beginning to glide from the remem- 
brance of men. The gods, which they had set up to worship in earth's 
high places, were to seem, in the strong light of truth, but stocks and 
stones. The idolatrous spell which had bound the past was broken. 

Stem men, with stout hearts, had gathered then. They saw the fu- 
ture with prophetic vision. The veil of uncertainty was lifted to them. 
The time had come for great and decided action, and they felt it — ^felt it, 
88 only such men in great emergencies can feel. The errors of the past 
they saw. The talismanic wand of reform was in their hands, and it 
was theirs to wield it. The golden calf was revealed, and it was their 
task to grind the idol to dust, and mingle a bitter cup for its worshipers. 
Prophetic voices came in upon their ears, and their hearts interpreted 
them. The day of retribution for past grievances was approaching, and 
justice was in their hands. 

The old hall was silent, for the hour had come. Then the man of. 
genius arose — the man* of thought and of action. Then, for the firs* 
time, was heard the political axiom that " All men are born free akp 
SQUAL.'^ Men heard it They believed it It became their creed, and 
their children's creed, and went down as the rich heritage of all coming 
time. That day's influence lives, and will live till the doctrine of equality 
and freedom is proved an absurdity. 

There are great days in the moral world. When conscience and in- 
tellect awaken to a realization of universal errors. When men see and 
loathe the corruption which they just now embraced. When reason r©" 
veals fallacies in ethics or religion — fallacies which men are slowest t^ 
discard, because they strike their roots deepest in the rank soil of hum^n 
prejudice, and because men shrink from the responsibility of attempting 
any change in that which education h«is rendered sacred. The day wh©*^ 
the humble German monk discovered the Bible chained to the pill^Ty 

1852.] HORTENSX. 243 


geminated incalculable influences. The thunderings and lightnings, the 
awfid voices, the finger, and the tablets, revealed to all time the ten 
immutable laws of human action. There is a day hallowed to all Chris. 
tian hearts, which brought " On earth peace, good will toward men" — 
the greatest day in human history. 

Great days ! What are ages to them ? What are the fruits of all 
past toil ? What are earth's treasures of knowledge to their revelations? 
How they reveal human weakness ! How they humble human pride ! 
Then the laurels of other days fade — the triumphs of the past are for- 
gotten. There is no lingering over the pomp that is past, for thought ia 
busy with a new present and future. Human vanity clothes itself in 
sackcloth, and would fain hide in the dust Light blazes in upon us. 
Men pause to wonder for a moment that they have not seen the new re- 
fulgence before. They rouse for a time from their lethargy, and then sit ^ 
down again, to await the coming" of a similar occasion — ^to wait perhaps 
for generations, for really great days seldom come. a. g. 


SwssT maiden 1 in thy calm, chaste ootmtenance, 

Where no fierce passions for the mastery vie ; 
And in the upward, spiritual glance, 

That softly glistens firom thine orient eye, 

Shine innocence and angel purity; 
But in the exquisite, ideal trance — 

Lighting thy classic face with thought — we see 
A feeling all too deep for earth ! Perchance, 

In heart-worship at thine altar kneeling, 
There the rapt worshipers their offerings bring; 

We mark the halo round thy forehead stealing, 

Thy perfect form — ^Madonna-like — revealing. 
To e'en adore thee were a holy thing. 
Fair model-work of God's own &8hioning ! e. c. 8. 


Booka mil tl)tir (EoDtre. 

Charles Lamb says, ^* In some respects the better a book is the less it 
demands from binding." For instance, we would not have our Paracel- 
8US in anything but mahogany leather, over heavy board, with the comew 
peeping out in most satisfactory genuineness. Our Du Bartas, (through 
whom, by the way,'the "Silver-tongued" Sylvester has immortalized him- 
self as indehbly as George Chapman by Homer,) should have a bruise on 
his back for every year of his honored antiquity ; we would let him fall, 
every " leaf fill ;" or upset an inkstand on his dexter side ; or drive a 
ragged nail at his comer of the shel^ and slide him against it forgetful- 
ly. Every full moon should see us tumbling over, — accidentally of 
course, — a pile some twenty tomes high ; Raleigh's History for a founda- 
tion, and William of Malmesbury, for a coping. Nor would we scold 
our housekeeper were she to forget, that our Jure Divino lay under a 
western window. Surely then naught but 

" That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid, 
Those ample clasps of solid metal made,** 

can be the " toga" for our old fathers to wrap their majestic thoughts in. 
Why, as soon would we see a " Medici," draped in a high coat-coUar and 
tight continuations, as a first edition of Jeremy Taylor in red gold-be- 
spangled morocco. 

It goes hard with us too, to have our "age-worn" fevorites thrust 
upon us in all the perfection of modem reproduction; — ^their quaintnesses 
unelementized; fishes which the tide of steam-presses has thrown 
upon our shores, to be picked up for a market stall; not the animate, 
breathing things we were wont to see in some quiet inlet " Fot," ex- 
claims Milton, "books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a 
progeny of life in them, to be as active, as that soul was, whose progeny 
they are." Does it not wring your heart, dear fellow Bibliophilos, to hear 
of Chaucer in Websterian spelling?— of expurgated Shakespeares? or of 
16mo. Utopias in all the ridiculousness of opinionated explanatory anno- 
tations footing every page ? Permit us to halt a moment to anathema- 
tize this duUard of an annotator, (Mr. J. A. St John,) who tries out the 
good Chancellor's sentences, as a tallow-chandler would his mutton-fet, 
and you may judge the result "smells to Heav'n" no less odiously- 
Verily we are almost constrained to wish with Andrew Marvell, that "all 


learning were in manuscript and some little oflScer (like our author) did 
keep the keys of the library." 

hi our antipathy to reprints, however, let us not be thought to include 
such noble volumes as the Moxon edition of the old poets and drama- 
tists, or many issued by John Murray and others — edited full as appi-e- 

Coleridge characterizes the Religio Medici as "a fine portrait of a 
liandsome man in his best clothes ;" and we could hardly refuse to give 
such a picture a worthy setting : not of that kind though, that should 
engage your look, ere you read the title page ; — a mere blaze of binding, 
like a Christmas Annual ; but, — to describe it, — a gentlemanly framing 
of dark, purplish calf; — ^ungilded sides, a plainly tooled, high ribbed 
back, and the fringing of the pages a dull red. We would choose much 
the same thing for Sidney, to whom perhaps Coleridge's thought applies 
equally as well, though his accomplished, and courtier-like beauties 
might bear some judiciously disposed gilding ; a simple bordering, and his 
armorial bearings on the title page cover. These books, it is understood, 
are octavos; but quartos' like John Murray's superb edition of Piers 
Ploughman, should be " right royally arrayed" in green turkey and gold, 
as heavily as would befit a volume of the Royal Academy Engravings, 
or Sir Harris Nicholas's " Orders of Knighthood." Duodecimos and 
smaller mos encompass a greater variety; the elegancies and refine- 
ments rather than the richnesses of binding ; the airy Lincoln green of 
Sherwood forest, rather than the armor of Achilles on a Thersites, totter- 
ing at every step with its weight. How think you the small pages of 
Britannia's Pastorals would look between heavy boards ? or the Aldine 
Oowper»in solid gold rims? Thus, while they would be comparatively 
necessary to an octavo Bible, they would be sadly amiss on Rogers' 
Italy. We are reminded in this comparison, that at no better place, can 
we exclaim against the totally inappropriate apparel, so often given to 
Kbies and Prayer Books. Gaudy red sides, with huge golden churches 
on them in a most villainous style of architecture ; gothic spires with 
innumerable pinnacles half buried beneath a load of twining tendrils ; 
which could never creep so high did they grow for centuries; trebly 
^ullioned windows looking out of and into nothing, are in poor keeping 
with the God-bom contents they enclose. Sombre morocco, with clasps 
and rims of gold — ^if the volume be too small for such adornments, the 
niorocco alone, — is at once suggested; — in fine, the veriest ** simplex 

^^nditiis" of covering. 
VOL. XVII. 32 


Fanciful bindings ; modern antiques in papier mache, or more lately 
gutta percha ; a something supereminently conspicuous, as like to be from 
ugliness as beauty, will only suit a corresponding frippery of text; 
excepting, however, well-wrought illuminations, where their aptness ism- 
disputable. That it be almost fanciful, a 

"Proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim,** 

would be our charge to the " bibliopegus" concerning the binding of 
Shakespeare's poems: and "when you shall see them on a beautiful 
quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a 
meadow of margin," we warrant, you will commend our taste. 

Shakespeare's dramas and poems should be separate books. The first 
burstings of his genius, would but sadly append its maturity ; the youth- 
ful impetuosity of an uncurbed imagination, displayed in his poems, 
would lose half its vigor beside its greater docility in his dramas. We 
do not mean that they should never be compared, but that a comparison 
forced on you as it would be, were they in the same volume, must needs 
be distasteful ; and if for no other reason, the natural " width of cross- 
ing" that lies between tragedies and sonnets, would sanction a separation 
to the distance of different editions. So would we unlink Walton*8 
Angler and his Lives ; so also of Religio Medici and the Vulgar En'Ois; 
and even Elia's Essays should be sundered from his Letters. Think of a 
volume labelled, " Coleridge, Shelley and Keats," as indeed there is— a 
trio joined as irruptably as the heads of Cerberus — three unfortunates 
impounded past redeeming. Poisons, Chemistry tells us, are sometimes 
made of wholesome ingredients; can such a literary mixture be much 
less? The conjoint publication of "Tupper's and Solomon's Proverbs* 
scarcely exceeds this. 

Uniform editions, of whatever array of authors, should not be bound 
together or alike. Giving your library very much the effect of a bar- 
rack on review day, your loved volumes might be mistaken for a com- 
pany of inanimate " regulars" in government clothes. We have often 
wondered, how it is possible for a taste-guided book fancier, to be blinded 
by a blaze of sameness ; to have a complete " to auro" on every side of 
him. ' Tis bad enough to see all the Delphin Latins in the same leather, 
and nothing but an occasional view askant, stolen at an Horace of Mil- 
man's editing, or Talboy's luxuries of classic text, could console us. Of 
course such issues as the Abbotsford Waverleys must have identical 
covers; and "complete works" the same, generally speaking, — whica 
though, however useful for reference, should seldom crowd shelves. 
One's chosen beauties, hidden hopelessly beneath an accumuladoo of 


THE MAIDEN. ' 247 

led pages, — a mass of matter "nothing wherefore" {wherefore 
g by direct conversion) cools his fever of monomaniacal enthusi- 
o the indifference of a cynic. 

3urbing a further expression of our desultory likings, it can be 
y necessary to allude to the world-accepted axioms, touching the 
g of books, which the good sense of almost every one will prevent 
om disregarding. No one needs reminding, {hat what becomes a 
a of Sermons, does not a volume of humorous Essays; or that 
se Lost and Hudibras wear different fashions. It is readily appar- 
at none other than a sober, quaker-colored garb, suits Bernard 
I. So yellow calf immediately suggests itself as the appropriate 
for Histories ; the gilding being all on the back, and none on the 
)r leaves. When, and on whose, half calf should be used, and 
QOt, is a matter to be decided by the relative estimation you hold 
thors in. But as a parting word, let us beg you not to make the 
3n mistake, of buying many books cheaply printed, instead of a 
few ; done in the best style. Having the best is not to be regarded 
terary luxury, for as Ancillon wisely said, when accused of pur- 
g the most elegant editions, "the less the eyes are fatigued in 
g a work, the more liberty the mind feels to judge it; and as we 
'^e more clearly the excellencies and defects of a prints book than 
in MS., so we see them more plainly in good paper and clear type, 
rhen the impression and paper are both bad." w. t. 

l\it iHaibm CtBt^nmg to tl)e JHurmttr of tl)e 0l)eU. 

Faiby being, witching mortal, 
Lingering at Life's rosy portal, 
Graceful, guileless, artless, winning, 
Art thou not too pure for sinning ? 
Never parted lips most surely 
Smiled more sweetly, more demurely, 
While, those silken lids from under. 
Steals a glance of childish wonder, 
Eyes that mirror every feeling, 
ISmM delight, half awe revealing. 


With thy dimpled hand enfolding, 
To thine ear a shell upholding ; 

248 ' r EXTRA LIZ ATI ON. [JuHC, 

Rapt, entranced thy yerj being, 

Some blest vision art then seeing f • 

May it last -with thee foreyer, 

Eye hath seen a fairer never. 

Art thou listening to the whisper 

Of the distant hymn at vesper ; 

Or the sounding chant of ocean, 

Swelling in its grand devotion ? 

Back are pushed thine auburn tresses 
By the hand which gently presses 
Iliat same shell, whose murmurs blending, 
Like the surges' roar unending. 
In their solemn tones and mystic, 
Breathe a meaning cabalistic. 
Sure some spirit there is dwelling, 
Ever musically telling 
Some wild tale to thee, so sweetly 
That thou seem'st entranced completely. 

Soft thine eyes with pleasure glisten, 
Still in pleased entrancement listen ; 
Self-forgetful, all unheeding 
Struggles of thy captive, pleading 
Not for freedom, but some token 
Of thy love, some word low spoken, 
From thy hand a kind caressing, 
To thy breast his pinion pressing. 
Maiden, with thy bird and shell. 
Winning maiden, fare-thee-well I #. k. l 




Society is a necessity of man's nature. The State is the legitimate 
form of Society. To preserve the form and fulfill the conditions of the 
State, a supreme authority must exist. The Government is the pr(^ 
representative of this authority. Grovernments are classed in reference 
to the depositaries of their power, as despotisms, monarchies, aristocracies, 
and democracies ; in reference to the manner of their administration, as 
centralized and (if the use of the expression may be allowed) localized 


" ■II I . ■ . i p II . . .1 11.11. I 

Every government which pretends to permanence and vigor, must re- 
lin in its own hands the superintendence of general interests and the 
lactment of general laws. The necessity of the case requires these 
inctions to he exercised at ibme center of action. When, in ad- 
ition to this, it professes the power of directing local laws and particu- 
ir interests, and concentrates in one place the administration of busi- 
ess peculiar and sectional in its character, it is properly called a cen- 
ralized government. When, on the other hand, this power is diffused, 
nd the administration entrusted to the local authorities, it may be styled, 
» want of a better term, a localized government. The former is mani- 
ested in the control and supervision of all subordinate interests by the 
lentral administration ; the latter, by the development of municipal in- 
titutions. The former government transacts by its functionaries, all 
hose affairs, which in the latter are carried on by provincial officers. By 
«ntralization is meant, the principle of a centralized government. The 
pint of municipal institutions is expressed by the term localization ; and 
tt this signification it will be used. 

hi order to understand the fact of centralization, its progress must be 
raced, in a country, which exemplifies its effects. The history of France 
iffords all the phenomena which attend its origin, development, and re- 
ulte; and will reveal the philosophy of its application to govemment.^ 
lie causes and progress of an event or principle constitute history. So- 
ial conditions are the offspring of circumstances and of laws. French 
entralization is eminently the product of circumstances. Its causes are 
omprehended in the condition of European Society, at the period of its 
rigin. The depravity and misrule of the Roman empire had been ob- 
iterated in the anarchy of the dark ages. In the turmoil and violence, 
he mcoherency and confusion of that period ; all clear distinction of 
ights and duties had been lost, all general ideas and interests had per- 
ched, and nationalities had expired in the animosities of provinces. So- 
iety was disorganized, and Chaos was king. Amid this disorder, the 
^erms of government still lingered. From the wreck of Society four el- 
ments were developed ; four systems intimately connected, yet indepen* 
ent; interwoven, yet antagonistic and discordant. First, among them,. 
yyr&ted the hierarchical church, learned, subtle, and ambitious. Second,, 
he feudal nobility, lordly, valiant, and tyrannical ; yet stricken with de- 
ay, and tottering to its fall. Third, the free towns, which had bought 
^ gold, or wrested with the sword, their charters from king and ba- 
ons. Some of these charters had been granted as early as the begin- 
of the twelfth century. Charters were the basis of their rights ; 

250 OBNTRALizATiON. [June, 

but turreted walls and mailed burgesses were the guardians of their free- 
dom. The free towns, favored by the king against the feudal nobility, 
possessed within their own limits absolute authority. They managed 
their internal affairs, elected their magistrates, called out their militia, 
and levied their taxes. But though brave, powerful, and rich, they re- 
tained timidly and exercised shrinkingly the liberties they had won. In- 
telligent in the acquisition of wealth, earnest in enterprise, patient in la- 
bor, they sought only security and repose. They lacked definiteness of 
purpose, and a full knowledge of their true interests. They lacked 
pride, enthusiasm, and that feeling of personal independence, which lent 
to the horrors of feudalism, the grace and glory of chivalry. Humble 
in thought, suppliant in language, crouching in manner ; they offered 
tribute and adulation, until oppression roused them to a sturdy resistance. 
Besides these, their elements, was another — ^the king ; who, as suzerain, 
exacted a nominal submission and homage. Feeble in means, yet a^ir- 
ing and adroit, he wielded well the slender advantages he possessed, of 
a central capital, feudal privileges, and singleness of aim. He availed 
himself of the weakness, the errors and the enmities of the other three. 
The situation of the cities was anomalous. Incoherency was no longer 
possible. The social condition demanded decision. The cities were able 
by a soUd, just and permanent confederacy, to transmit to their posterity 
municipal rights and progressive freedom ; or, by accepting the proffered 
protection of the central government, to obtain present peace and sad- 
den security. It was the dilemma of the youthful Hercules, when Plea* 
sure and Virtue solicited him in the desert The cities paused. T!h»j 
could not at one draught drain the poisoned chalice, still it was their 
final and resolute choice. An examination will prove the causes, whidi 
plunged them into centralization, to have been manifold. The frustioiiB 
strife between the rich burghers and the licentious rabble, made both an 
easy prey to the court The magistracy of the towns was irresponsiUe; 
the multitude, ignorant and indolent ; so that popular leaders, more am- 
bitious than patriotic, frequently sacrificed the good of the State to their 
own selfish gratification. Jealousies and feuds prompted neighboiiDg 
cities to invite foreign aid, until " Macedonian gold'' leveled their gates 
of steel. The metropolis by its magnificence and luxury, its schools and 
shows, and the rich rewards it held out to the triumphs of genius and 
Talor, attracted to its vortex, the ardent, the ambitious, and the gifted— 
the rich, the chivalric, and the gay. There, the smiles of the sovereign 
and the fascinations of the court, secured their allegiance ; so that, when 
they returned to their provincial homes, they ever sighed for the de- 


lights of a capital, and entered into a ready alliance with the king. 
Foreign wars and military organization under a national monarch, excited 
a common feeling, and completed the consolidation of the kingdom. 
Baron, hurgher, and peasant, freely surrendered their estahlished rights 
to avoid the odious alternative of foreign subjugation. 

These different causes silently set in motion, proceeded to the same end. 
Towards the close of the fifteenth century, a monarchy arose, with unity, 
strength, and cohesion. It soon accumulated a disciplined military force, 
and assumed an unrestricted power of taxation. It usurped the admin- 
istration of justice, the superintendence of a general police, and the di- 
rection of diplomatic relations. The causes which first produced the 
consolidation of the monarchy, stimulated the growth of centralization* 
Force was added to persuasion. Action and reaction accomplished the 
rest It became a mere system of absorption. The Bastile, the Parlia- 
ment, the secret trial, the gendarmerie, and the soldiery worked out the 
problem. Charles the Eighth, advanced it by force; Louis the Eleventh, 
by treachery. Richelieu and Mazarin smote down the old nobility. 
Louis the Fourteenth, centered in his person all the functions of govem- 
inent, and powers of Society. Supported by vast treasures and mighty 
armies, he demolished without resistance, the last vestige of popular 
tights and local interests. Louis and France were one. The king was 
the State. Despotism and centralization were synonymous. The French 
tevolution was a struggle of classes, in which, first the people, and then 
the aristocracy, strengthened for their own purposes, the hands of the 
central power. 

It consunmiated the scheme of centralization, and manifested its 
importance in the French government. Subsequent events have proved 
that neither the representative of a royal race, nor the ephemeral idol of 
the mob comprises the idea of the State. Neither national assemblies, 
nor military chieftains, neither kings by legitimacy, nor kings by elec- 
tion, equal its conception. The image of the supreme authority, the re- 
presentative oi Society, is the government — a centralized unit, whether 
shadowed forth under the symbols of autocracy, republic, or moboo- 
lacy. Monarch or Anarch is indifierent. 

Besides the causes which produced it, many circumstances impart vi- 
tality and vigor to the principle, in its present condition. The pernicious 
influences of a metropolis and a bureauocracy, assist the centralizing proof. 
A national debt aggravates the evil. By a series of loans, government 
accumulates a vast amount of capital. The control of this, the payment 
of the interest on it, aud the management of funded stocks, contrast the 

252 osKTRAuzATioir. [Jone, 

govermuent and nation, as capitalist and laborer. The private charita- 
ble establishments of former times, having fiEuled to relieve the mighty 
misery, the stupendous poverty of modem civilization, have been su- 
perseded in most countries, by general poor laws. The immense patron- 
age to agent and pauper, strengthen still more the government Manu- 
factur^B have the same tendency. The fluctuating character, labor, and 
wages of the population which they create, demand more watchfulness 
from government, than an independent yeomanry. Distant and popu- 
lous possessions require the coercion of a strong central power. The 
standing armies of Europe point their own moral. England presents 
A complex combination of the two principles of centralization and lo- 
calization. Her position is ill-deflned from the complication and irregu- 
larity of her governmental theory. This peculiar condition is found to 
be a result of the history and structure of the British government Ch^ 
iginally it comprised four nations, distinct in manners, laws and language. 
Each of these was divided into numerous counties or clans, with diffe^ 
ent customs, of tribal origin. These they retained in spite of a gradual 
assimilation; so that three separate national parliaments, and many 
provincial assemblies, for a long time existed. These supplied a check to 
the central power. Since their absorption the strong national spirit and 
marked characteristics of the Scotch and Irish, have militated against 
centralization. The tie of clanship, and the influence of the Irish Catho- 
lic and Scotch churches have also made opposition. Ireland, forever 
struggling in her bonds, and shedding over her misery the mournful ra- 
diance of poetry and eloquence, is subverting the centralization which 
crushes her. Scotland possesses her Edinburg, the literary capital of the 
world, towering above the metropolis, in the achievements of mind, op- 
posing the centralization of political power at London, with a centraliza- 
tion of intellect and taste in her own bosom. British colonies erecting 
provincial institutions, and clamoring for popular rights, increase the ex- 
tent, but diminish the intensity of the power of government The mu- 
nicipal and representative institutions of England, have always proved a 
bar to the march of centralization. Under the Plantagenets, they ac- 
quired a strength, stability and influence, which neither the constitutional 
tyranny of the Tudors, nor the arbitrary attack of James the Second 
upon the corporations, could destroy. She is still in the process of cen- 
tralization. The government is composed of individuals, having powe^ 
fill local influence, and peculiar local rights. The ministers, lords, and 
commons, ai*e generally landholders, who pass a portion of the time upon 
their estates, where wealth and other advantages confer a local and tem- 


porary sovereignty. They are more anxious to exalt this hereditary 
honor, than to concentrate means in the hands of a bureauocracy, in 
which they are more transient tenants. They prefer the permanent dig- 
nity of their families, to the hazard of a struggle for inordinate power. 
All patronage is bestowed upon the descendants and retainers of this 
local aristocracy. Hence, they form a grand element in the municipal 
conservatism of the nation. The -people, on the other hand, who feel 
the inequality and burden of local and peculiar privileges, have strug- 
^ed to destroy them. To obtain equality of condition, and uniformity of 
legislation, they have appealed to and strengthened the central power. 
The immense moral influence they wield, has been directed to the same 
end. If progress in general intelligence and enlightened statesmanship is> 
parallel with these results, a fair equilibrium may be established, and 
neither principle will be subverted. Gaunt famine and insulted poverty 
are burning for vengeance, as well as right ; yet hope is not lost, that 
Wisdom may yet lead England to the security of political, as well as 
civil hberty. 

It is an interesting study to contemplate the causes, which 'hare com- 
batted centralization in the United States. They are not clouded with 
myths, or embellished with the legends of traditionary lore. The early 
history of the settlement and institutions of the country is open to phi- 
losophical scrutiny. Our forefathers generally settled in small colonies, 
unconnected save by the ties of a common ancestry and common senti- 
ments. Their political establishments, although essentially similar, were 
entirely independent The association of small towns for the protection 
of general interests, was the foundation of the chartered colony. Equal 
in intelligence, wealth and rank, accustomed to the operation of repre- 
sentative government, in the mother country, they readily gave Society 
this form, only with a more Hberal basis. The earliest efforts of a youth- 
ful people for oi^anization are numifestcd in local assemblies and institu- 
taons. - Municipal institutions are spontaneous, not legislative in their 
origin. As the diamond is crystalized by the hidden progress of na- 
ture, so they are the result of latent action in the bosom of communi- 
ties. Its influence must be the subject of feeling, not speculation. It is 
daily imperiled ; for aggression may overwhelm, intrigue undermine, dis- 
Bention subvert it. It must first be a part of the birthright and educa- 
tion of a people, and then be systematized. Its maxims must be cher- 
ished, its principles proclaimed, its authority established. To the Amer- 
ican people, it was a fact, and convenience, before it was a creed. It was 

thus that they eflected that in which the French tonvns so signally failed. 
VOL. XVII, 33 


Localization had been wrought into their nature, before the idea of a 
national government was presented. The existence of a limited centrali- 
zation in our scheme of government dates from the formaticm of the 
Constitution. It is a matter of law. Its bearings were known and its 
phenomena studied, before it was admitted into our theory. It seemed 
impossible to model a feudal government, which could reconcile the m.- 
^rgy* stability, and power, requisite for the preservation of Society, vith 
localization and liberty. Yet the framers of the Ck)nstitution adjusted 
these antagonisms, by establishing their central government, with an in- 
variable reference to the municipal institutions of the country. The 
spirit of localization and unfederated municipalities, could not be trusted 
to resist the operation of a great central power. Therefore, sovereign 
and independent State governments were erected, as barriers to the 
sweep of centralization. These became the depositaries of large portions 
of political power and strength. They share with the general goven- 
ment the allegiance and affection of the people. They possess the gw- 
eral and usual administration of justice, the control of the militia, and 
the collection and distribution of the State revenues by their own agents. 
They exercise a direct State action, in Presidential elections, and theap- 
pointment of Senators by the local legislatures. The county and town 
administration exerts a like influence. The officers of the Federal goven- 
ment, from their early training, feel more attachment to local institutions, 
than the local authorities to the Federal government. The actual power 
of the national government has increased, yet relatively it is no str<»ger. 
Instead of thirteen, thirty-one sleepless sentinels oppose usurpation by 
the central authorities. The National and State governments have spread 
with equal growth. Anxious vigilance against encroachment, is the 
duty of the local sovereignties ; and while this is exercised, fean of 
the general government are chimerical. A knowledge of the value of 
the two principles, has systematized and strengthened them. In th^ 
fortunate combination may be realized that social progress, that individ- 
ual happiness and freedom, and that national grandeur, which are the le- 
gitimate end of human effort 

The influences which the administration exerts upon the character of the 
nation, are even more important than the results of a particular form of gov- 
ernment. The form of government is but the perishing type of the supreme 
authority, while the spirit of the administration is the soul which pervades 
it, and addresses itself to the consciousness of a nation. Th« relations 
of centralization to the character of a nation are manifold. Let it be 
considered in the reciprocal effects of government and people. The objects of 


government are self-preservatiou and social progress. The requirements 
of these are fourfold ; protection against foreign insult and aggression, 
the preservation of internal order, the development of national resources, 
and the individual happiness and progress of the' people. These require- 
ments demand efficient prosecution of the necessary wars, the mainte- 
nance of foreign relations, the administration of justice and repression of 
disorder, the moral and intellectual illumination of the people, inter- 
nal improvements, and the advancement of industry. Does a centralized 
government perform these duties to better advantage than a localized? 
In war, diplomacy, and the superintendence of the police, the elements 
of success are the same. They are, ample resources and an accurate 
knowledge of their situation, execution, vigor, and vigilance, secrecy and 
rapidity of operation, and implicit obedience in the agent. Centraliza- 
tion bestows unity of design, velocity of action, and a superiority in the 
other requisites of success. Hence the immediate results are victories in 
war, domestic order from the certain enforcement of law, and great 
advantages in the management of foreign affairs. While the same ele- 
ments are generally necessary for success in a system of education, mili- 
tary training and internal improvements, certain practical objections arise 
which render a central administration less efficient than local manage- 
ment Where the ditfusion of knowledge is the object, the latter have 
better opportunities to test the qualifications of a teacher, a greater in- 
centive to vigilant economy, and a deeper interest in the welfare of the 
pupils. Where the cultivation of science and the progress of discovery 
and invention are the objects, popular applause and contributioDs afford 
hi^er motives to action, than the pensioDs of a civil list The educa- 
tion imparted in a centralized government, however perfect its system, 
inspires no thirst for knowledge, no activity of thought, no loftiness of 
soul. The martial training is a compulsory and unintelligent discipline. 
Hie internal improvements consult rather the ' convenience of the gov- 
enmient, than the prosperity of thQ people. 

The immediate benefits of centralization arise from the order and uni- 
formity of the State. These very advantages carry the bane in their ' 
own bosoms. Ultimately the sources of strength become sources of 
weakness. The precision of detail, the minute regularity, the absolute 
obedience in all departments, enervate the moral and intellectual tone of 
the people, lob existence of its energy, destroy the opportunity and abil- 
ity for individual cooperation, and convert society into a creature of the 
state. Mere physical bravery may not depend upon the government ; 
bat that higher courage, which gives a meaning to every action, arises 


■ ^- -■^-r-i 1 IT MTM-n-»»— ~ -- II- ■ T I I ■iirr I 1 . i i TTW' 1 

in a measure from the feeling of personal independence, and is blasted 
by blind obedience. A centralized government, by its munificent boun- 
ties, may give to industry a temporary luiairiance ; but it ultimately de- 
prives labor of its dignity, diminishes the stimulus to exertion, and ban- 
ishes the spirit of enterprise. Contempt of honorable toil^ engendered 
by the lavish indolence of a court, demoralizes a nation. The central- 
ized government, intervening in everything which can affect the public 
order, learns to regard religion as an expediency, and assumes the au- 
thority to prescribe its forms and wield its influences. The religion doled 
out by a pensioned priesthood, is not of a very elevating character ; 
while the evils of an union of church and state need no comment 

A centralized government, if just and judicious, may afford a fair dis- 
tribution of the necessaries and comforts of life and physical well-being ; 
yet that state of society must be fearful, in which these are dependent 
(HI administrative goodness and ability. 

Localization makes good rulers. The training of municipal institu- 
tions, fits men for governing. While the concentration of power confers 
upon government strength and permanence, it renders insecure the pos- 
fiession of the occupants. In localized goverimients, the slow assent of 
remote municipal or provincial assemblies, is necessary to effect a change 
of administration. Where centralization prevails, it is a mere transfer 
of the badges of authority ; and the removal is as violent as rapid. A 
conspiracy, a revolt of the city troops, an insurrection of the palace 
guards, a midnight mob, effect in a few hours an abdication and an 
usurpation. The government still performs its accustomed routme. It 
matters not who wears the purple ; the essence of power is still thesama 
What cares the herdsman what stars twinkle by night, if the same 
heavens hang their draperies of darkness ; or what orb rules by day, if 
earth receives a genial light Government becomes the arena ; the sh^ 
ing crown the prize of the most successful wrestler for power. Central- 
ization proposes to the aspiring the possession of power as the end, with 
fraud and violence as the means. The glory of conquest and sovereigntj, 
not the common weal, becomes the aim of the ambitious. Without th^ 
forgetfulness and sacrifice of self, passion and vice usurp the throne of 
the heart. The virtue of the ruler is blasted by the blandishments of 
luxury, and the excesses of sensuality. He is devoured with a hist of 
power. He is gorged with greatness. He is sated with self. 

It is now necessary to consider the subject in rdation to llie fofm oi 
government, and its tendencies to free or arbitrary rule. It is brought 
forth and encouraged, not only by arbitrary governments, which necessa- 

1852.] CENTRALIZATION. ^ 257 

rily absorb all the functions of State to preserve their own vitality ; but 
dso by democratic nations, unversed in true liberty. Democracies, as 
well as despotisms, tend to centralization. They delight in three things, 
equality of condition, uniformity of legislation, and simplicity in the con- 
struction of government Centralization complies with these conditions. 
Its simplicity, order, and eifectiveness, are powerful seductions to a people 
intent on security and gain. The citizen, conscious of his individual in- 
significance, magnifies the majesty and might of Society, and bestows 
the attributes of perfection upon the idea of the State. In war or in- 
testine commotion, a trust is often reposed in the central power, which is 
never restored. Hence the almost irresistible impulse of democracies to 
centralization. Centralization, in whatever way produced, in its special 
application to government, results in the most vigorous despotism ; a des- 
potism which encircles, insinuates and stides ; a despotism which enters 
into the national character, and supplies its place ; like those mineral so^ 
lutions, which, without altering the form or aspect of a plant, petrify its 

In order to illustrate more fully the relations of centralization to gov* 
emment, it will be necessary to deduce some general reflections, firom the 
foregoing special applications and conclusions. Society is without form. 
Municipal institutions spring from the chaos. The radical defect of these 
is incoherency, exclusiveness and individualism. Confederation is mis- 
trusted. Hence centralization up to a certain point is a necessity, be- 
cause it is the only power which can reconcile animosities, introduce en- 
larged ideas, and establish general relations. Centralization may tempo- 
rarily benefit a country, but ultimately it retards its social and moral 
progress. Besides, it is a self-accumulating power, and when once it has 
gained the ascendancy, the nation becomes the creature ; the ruler the 
image and personification of its spirit. K a tortured people wreak ven- 
geance upon their tyrants, they but trample upon blind symbols. The 
dark, intangible and shapelesss Destiny still broods over them, ready to 
transfer their iron crown to any reckless usurper with an audacity akiib 
to genius. Centralization refuses that silent and steady influence of the- 
people in their primary assemblies, which falleth like the dew from heav-^ 
en. Swollen with greatness, it listens not to the voice of the masses, unr 
til their hoarse cries are heard at the palace gates, and pikes bristling; 
with human heads are seen in the crimsoned streets. The voice of the> 
people comes in tones of thunder, and their words are words of doom.. 
When centralization has wrought the ruin of a nation, it is hopeless in its. 
degradation ; and, like the inebriate, when utter destructioni scowls at 


him, drowns its woes in the excesses of its vice. It is vain to attempt to 
resuscitate it by the introduction of an artificial system of municipal in- 

When the spirit of liberty has departed from a nation, and it lies tor- 
pid in the embrace of centralization, legislation may flash in its face, the 
sunlight of localization, but it will meet no response from its dumb, cold 
lips — ^no glance of intelligence from its dull and leaden eye. It is be- 
coming then for a free people to cherish the spirit of localization which 
animates them ; and jealously to restrict that centralization, which, while 
it flushes with a hectic brilliancy the present prosperity of a country, 
breeds within it the seeds of national disease, decay and death. It is es- 
pecially becoming for the American people, blessed as they are in their 
peculiar system of government — a system which may be emphatically 
termed, " the Christianity of political philosophy," to guard against the in- 
sidious approaches of that principle which would bedew their smiling 
land with the tears and sweat of toiling millions. Let them but bind to 
their bosoms the amulet which protects them, and every cottage which 
now gems the valley, will continue a fortress of freedom, an abode of 
comfort, truth, and manly independence. 

©be to IJaatoral Homance. 

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 

The TempeH, 

Queen of the mystic page I 
Thou of the fairy spell and wondrous lay ! . 
Sweet Romance ! breathe upon my way, 
Not with the breath of this de^nerate age. 
But of that time when life was summer play — 
When nature ever wore a roseate hue. 

And earth kept holiday ; 
When on the ground the Chaldean shepherd lay 
Gazing all night, with calm, creative view, 

Into the over-hanging blue, 
And found, amid the myriad twinkling stars, 

Warriors and maidens fair — 
Heroes of marvelous deeds and direful wars» 

Serpents and flaming hair, 

The Dragon and the Bear, 
A silvery Venus, and a lurid Mars, 



Come at thy votary's call ! 

Thou that, with embraces kiDd, 
Throwing thy tendrils round the human heart, 
Like thine own ivy on the Gothic wall, 

A stronger influence dost impart 
Than can stem Reason on the haughty mind I 

And therefore, Romance, would I greet 

Thee by the fairest of fair names — 

Calling thee debonair and sweet; 
For sweet thou art — ^inspiring manhood's dreams, 
When all aweary of the actual life; 
And sweet thy influence seems 

To woman — shrinking from the strife, 
The sordid tumult of the wrangling mart ; 

But doubly sweet thou art, 
Leading the tender child by gentle streams, 
Among the lilies of our flowery youth, — 

Filling his all-believing heart 
With thoughts that glorify the common truth, — 
Building before him, in the morning air 
Ethereal palaces and castles fair. 


A glory hovers round the wondering boy ; 
He revels in his joy I 
And with like innocence the Earth 
Received thy blessings at its birth ; 
For, in the ivied days of yore, 

To man's enchanted gaze. 
Nature was beautiful fSar more 

Than in our wiser days. 
And every forest — every stream — 
The mountain and the valley, then did seem 

Bathing in golden rays : 
Visions of Deity, with beauty mild 
The longing heart beguiled ; 
And in that lovelier hour. 
Thy spiritual power 
Reared a fair Heaven on proud Olympus' height. 
And, with celestial fire. 
Kindling the grand desire 
Inborn with man, displayed before his sight 
An ever-beauteous store 
Of myt^ologic lore. 
Till poets and sages told, with rare delight, 
Of shadowy realms forever calm and bright. 



Then Jove, omnipoteDt, enthroo6d high 

In the empyrial sky, 
Breathed in the wind, and Ihondered in the storm ; 

And Heaven's dread artillery 
Was but the awful presence of the Gkxl — 
The earthquake but the tremor of his rod 1 

Then Poesy gave birth, 
While yet the hearts of men were young and warm. 
To Deities in many a sylvan form, 
Who roamed, like mortals, through Arcadian groves. 

Whispering the maids of earth 

Sweet legends of their loves : 
Then Cupid and fair Psyche breathed their vows, 
He with the feathered darts and bow unstrung. 

And garlands on his brows ; 
She, folding gently to her bosom, doves 
Snow-white, forever — as their mistress, young ; 
Oh ! many an olden bard has sweetly suag 
How whiter than their plumes that bosom seemed, 
While through the golden hair that softly hung 
Adown her neck, two liquid mirrors gleamed ; 
And, as they sighed together, peerless Joy 
Enwreathed the maiden and the raptured boy 1 

• V. 

Yes ! on romantic pilgrimage. 
To- the calm piety of nature's shrine. 
Through summer paths thou led'st our human-kind. 

With influence divine. 
In the orient, elden age. 

Ere man had learned to wage 
Dispassionate war against his natural mind. 

Thy voice of mystery — 
Reading aloud the earth's extended page, 

Bade human aspirations find, 
In the cool fountain and the forest tree, 

A sentient Deity ; 
The flowing river and the murmuring wind, 

The land — ^the sea. 

Were all informed by thee I 


Through coral grottoes wandering and singing. 
The merry Nereid glided to her cave ; 
Anon, with warm, luxurious motion, flinging 
Her sinuous form above the moonlit wave, 
To the charmed nuuiuer gave 


A glimpse of snowy arms and amber tresses, 

While OD his startled ear 
The sea-nymph's madrigal fell dear ; 

Then, to the far recesses 
Where drowsy Neptune wears the emetald crown, 

Serenely floated down, — 
Leaving the mariner aU begirt with fear ! 

In the under-opening wood, 
What time the Gods had crowned the full-grown year, 
The Dryad and the Hamadryad stood 

Among the fallow deer ; 
Bending the languid branches of their trees, 

With every rose-lipped breeze, 
To view their image in the fountains near, — 
The fountains I where the white-limbed Naiads sang— 
Pouring upon the air melodious trills. 
And, while the echoes through the forest rang, 
The white-limbed Naiads of a thousand rills 
Took up the song, and wide the chorus spread. 
Led by Diana, in the dewy morn. 
The Oread sisters chased the dappled fawn 
Through all the coVerts of their native hills ; 
Home with the spoils, at sultry noon they fled— 

Home to their shaded bowers, 
Where, with the ivy and those sacred fl'^wers 
That now have faded from the weary earth. 
Each laughing Oread crowned an Oread's head ; 
The mountains echoed back their maiden mirth-* 
Bousing old Pan, who, from a secret lair, 
Shook the wild tangles of his frosty hair, 
And laid him down again with sullen roar : 
The frightened Nymphs like Parian statuA stand t 
One balancing her body half in air — 

Dreading to hear again that tumult sore; 
One, with an elvish twinkle in her eye, 
Waving above her head a lily hand ; 
7111 suddenly, like dreams, away they fly— • 
Leaving the forest stiller than before ! 


Such was thy power, 0, Pastoral Romance ! 
In that ambrosial age of classic fame, 

The spirit to entrance. 
Fain would I whisper of the latter djiys, 

When in thy royal name 
The mailed knights encountered lance to lance 
All for sweet Romance and ** fayre ladyes* " praiM f 
lYU. 34 

262 MiBTAKss. [June, 

Bat no 1 I bowed tbe koee, 
And vowed allegianoe to thee. 
As I beheld thee in thy golden prime,—* 
^ And now from thy demesne must haste away ; 
Perchance that of the after-time — 
Of nodding plumes and chivalrous array, 
In after- time I sing a roundelay: 

Yet from niy eight meanwhile, 
Take not thy cheering glance, thy orient smilt 1 


Fair spirit, of ethereal birth 1 
In whom all mysteries and beauties blend, 
Still from thy purer dwelling place descend, 
And idealize our too material earth ; 
Still to the bard thine aid celestial lend, 
To robe his thoughts in gause of brightest hu& 
Round every image grace majestio throw 1 
Till rapturously the living song shall glow 
With inspiration, as thy being trUe, 
And Poesy's creations decked by thee, 
Shall wake the tuneful thrill of sensuona ecstasy 1 x. c. i. 


This is a world of mistakes, as the most defective vision cannot M to 
discover. Of mistakes in religion we need say nothing, except that every 
system of human origm has proved a grand mistake ever since that first 
great error in the garden. Omniscience alone never mistakes. But 
everything else, how prolific of them. Even being right generally comes 
by accident ; certainty is always a mistake. 

Mistakes in Science are the only stepping-stones to TniH). Philosophy 
had its foundation in misconceptions, and the lesser &Ilacies of all knowl- 
edge siDce have served only as approximations to the reality. Who 
knows that the grand principles, which we now think to lie at the foun- 
dation of all truth, are not mere errors which the quick puff of a pro- 
gressive intelligence will one day scatter like chaff to be replaced bj 
others as plausible, as false. Newton may have been wrong, and Galileo 
may have given birth to a chimsera. Conviction goes with their priuci- 

1852.] MISTAKES. 263 

pies now, but it may be hereafter a conviction that they and we were 

Mistakes in Literature are more evident, perhaps, than any elsewhere. 
How many an author has hugged the fond hope that the oflfspring of his 
brain-throes should go down the ages to lend immortality to his name, 
iied in the illusion, and been with his works forgotten ! How many 
caustic critics, who had condemned to the frost of their censure the blos- 
ioms of youthful genius, have seen those flowers nourished to a full ex- 
pansion beneath the smiles of popular favor, while their strong denun« 
^iations have withered only themselves ! It is a great mistake to sup- 
pose that the old fogy-dom of letters is to reign over all minds and that 
Edl pure thought is to be cramped within its iron rules. It is a great mis- 
bake to think that Antiquity has furnished the only examples of pure 
thought and chastened diction, either in poetry or prose ; a great mistake 
to think that the tide of Literature is constantly beaten back by the 
rushing stream of knowledge, instead of harmoniously uniting in one 
flashing current. 

Mistakes in Government most numerous and fatal. All decayed 
Kingdoms, all crumbled Republics, are but sad examples of this £EUit 
The old dynasties that long ago flourished, built cities and monuments 
that they vainly thought imperishable, and are now so lost in oblivion, 
that they are unthought of in the very home of their splendor, were but 
grand mistakes. And so with modem powers. The stem despotism of 
Russia, where the demon of centralization, cased in triple steel, sits upon 
an iron throne, is but a fallacy, that the surges of progress will soon over- 
whelm in their resistless tide. Poor, fickle, deluded France, drowned in 
anarchy and steeped to the very core in madness, is a terrible example of 
governmental self-delusion. And even England, proud and almost free, 
is an illustration of this seemingly inevitable error. The external pros- 
perity which adorns the state but cloaks the rottenness within. Like the 
ivy which twines its graceful arms in beauty round her sturdy trees and 
massive towers, it but increases the chill dampness which <?onsume8 its 
vitals, till the tottering structure thunders to the earth, crushing tender 
vine and green foliage beneath its massive ruins. And may we not fear 
Ihat there are within our own State the seeds of that decay which shall 
prove this experimei^t a failure ? It is but too possible that sectional strife 
and party differences may rat-like gnaw at the joints and eat away the 
timbers, till some storm more severe or more lasting, shall wreck the ship 
and plunge the hopeless mariners in a foul sea of discord and confusion. 

But it is not to nations or communities alone that we are to look for 
proof of our theory of mistakes. Individual instances, too, exemplify it 

264 MISTAKES. [June* 

strongly. Death is often an accident, Life too often a mistake. We see 
it often in our own little world. How many who come here with fresh 
hearts and pure affections, adorned with the fairest gems of home-love 
and youthful hope, sacrifice all these sweet influences on the foul altar of 
an useless, nay, almost ludicrous ambition ! How many find, when too 
late, that they have led a CJollege life which was one long continuation of 
errors and fallacies in action and belief! The crown may be won, but the 
heat of the contest has shriveled laurels at best but short-lived. The 
deluded adventurer finds too late, that those whom he had fancied friends, 
were but tools which could cut the hand that used them, that the gold 
he thought he was treasuring, proved but dirt and pebbles. And the 
pang of youthful disappointment, though trivial in itself, is keener than 
the sharpest thrust at the man's heart, for the portals are unguarded by 
the half-despair a world-life engenders. 

But such views as these would signify that all mistakes are sad, all 
fatal. But it is not so. Half the pleasure of fallible humanity is in the 
uncertainty of the hopes and the fears which attend it. The mistakes of 
the lover fill the full cup of his happiness which the bitter knowledge of 
his maid's inconstancy would dash from his loathing lips. He 

"————believes her true 
And be is blest m so believing," 

and if he has afterward occasion to 

" ■ ■ ■■ monm that ere he knew 

A girl so fair and undeceiving^" 

the present pain cannot destroy the past pleasure. And even in this 
case, the joy is all in the mistake, the sorrow in the truth. K he had 
not been undeceived he .would not have been unhappy. The dream was 
sweet Wo came only with the waking. 

Is not the pride of the patriot too often but a mistake that gratifies the 
deluded? He exults in the fond thought that his is the blest, the favored 
land where truth and learning, freedom and subordination move harmo- 
niously together. For him no cloud lowers athwart his country's destiny, 
and he discerns no blemish on her proud escutcheon. Others may 
speak to him of deeds done foully in the midnight, of secret stabs, of a 
broken faith, of a perjured King. But he indignantly hurls back the 
charges and rejoices in the glory of his country. He is happily mistaken. 

And the tyrant clings to a delusion which lays a flattering unction to 
his soul. He sits in fancied security upon his tottering throne and thinks 

1852.] IflBTAKBS. 265 

the guards that clash their armor in his presence invincible, incorruptible. 
Mistake blinds him to the snaky tread that stealthily reaches to his very 
knee, and renders him deaf to the murmurs of mutiny that swell like 
night winds around his couch. He sees not the dagger in the hand of 
Bratus, and hears in the hoarse cry of subjects rising in terrible manhood 
for redress, only the fickle clamor of a childish mob. Happy mistake 1 
Horrible reality to him, when reddening sky, piled barricade, and shrill 
song of vengeance shall rouse him from his dream, to find his bed in 
flames, his crown a bauble, and himself a slave. What but a mistake 
gladdened the heart of a Loyola as he battled bravely to sustain a sink- 
ing Church ? The sad knowledge that he was founding an order which 
should in after years become synonymous with all crimes, to support a 
Church coextensive with enslaved superstition, would have been a poor 
incentive to the failing strength of his devotion. 

The knowledge that his son was to lose his Kingdom, and the hated 
Stuart was to scatter his ashes to the winds, would have illy soothed the 
dying couch of Cromwell, whose proud heart went out in death sustained 
by the mistaken thought that his crown and name might go down to ft 
long line of prosperous Sovereigns. And it might have been little 
cheering to the heart of Washington, and flashed feeble sunlight through 
the cloud that environed his hopes, had he known how far the nation he 
had rescued would depart firom his principles; how the demagogue 
^ould usurp the place of the patriot, and the profound Statesman be 
set aside for the brilliant epaulet on a general's shoulder. And we, when 
We hope that our country may be eternal and prosperous, may be mis- 
taken. If so, God grant that we see not the reality. 

Kind Providence, which has given us the privilege of mistaking, the 
tincertainty of expecting, the bliss of ignorance ! Mistakes, how benevo- 
lent ! gilding all youth with the bright hues of a sky brighter than 
manhood even dreams of, blinding the eye of the deceived lover, making 
the patriot forget his present misery in the future good, veiling all com- 
ing evil in a cloud of hopes that seem realities. Heaven forefend that 
we should ever be of those miserable, precise few, who are never mis- 
taken. Let us dream of joys to come, let imagination give us pleasant 
groves and joy-murmuring rills to adorn the future. Let its soft music 
come to our ear on per^med breezes, luring us to pleasant shades and 
cool arbors. K these may be realities, thank Heaven for them ; if they 
may not, oh ! let us forever be mistaken. p« 


8[l)Ott3l)t0 on Naturalijation. 

It is Baid that foreigners will not have acquired sufficient intelligence 
for tlie exercise of the right of suffrage, within the time oi previous resi- 
dence prescribed by our present laws. 

It is not they that primarily elect our Presidents and great officers of 
State. It is the press, the Congressional cliques, the Tammany Hall meet- 
ings, the National Conventions. These are the huge locomotives that 
propel hither and thither the long trains of immigrant cars. These Na- 
tional Conventions speak right out and tell the nation whom they most 
elect as President and Vice President They are perfect Jupiters sitting 
on high Olympus and nodding their " ambrosial curls." The men that 
they may chance to nominate, are the favored sons of fortune who will 
attain the highest honors. 

The native may vote from enlightened principle, the naturalized for- 
eigner from mere caprice ; but should they both support the nominees of 
the same National Convention, we should apprehend no more dang^ 
from the vote of the one than from that of the other. If it is admitted 
that the Union is safe in the hands of the great political parties of the 
day, it could not be jeopardized, though the native and naturalized fo^ 
eigner should give different suffrages, by voting for the nominees of op- 
posite National Conventions. It is the Conventions that we should fear, 
and not the men that speak French, Spanish, Dutch and broken English. 
Ulysses, " the man of many arts," is more formidable than the blunde^ 
ing giant, old Polyphemus. These Conventions too are convoked on 
every occasion, to nominate the humblest township officer as well as the 
chief magistrate of the Union. Should foreigners officiate before such 
presences, they would be treated like lame Vulcan, when he attempted 
to do for the gods the offices of the grac^ul Ganymede. It might be 
that those thundering old Jupiters would get mad, take them by the foot 
and cause them to describe very nearly the curve of a parabola from 
heaven to the island of Lemnos. 

Foreigners want sufficient intelligence, indeed ! Strange thougb it 
may seem, they that talk thus, will make long congratulatory speeches to 
Kossuth, and shed tears of joy in anticipating the nearness of time when 
Hungary will be free. They will pass resolutions in favor of the libera- 
tion of Smith O'Brien and John Mitchell, and wish them god-speed ia 
their efforts to establish republican institutions in Ireland. K the Hun- 
garians are sufficiently intelligent for the exercise of the right of suffrage 


in Hungary, and the Irish in Ireland ; by what kind of argument can it 
"be proved that they both are too illiterate to vote in the United States f 
Indeed, a less degree of intelligence will suffice here than there, by reason 
of the many pillars of iron, and brass, and steel, that support the struc- 
ture of this great government. 

Again, it is said that foreigners will not have become sufficiently pat- 
liotic within the time of previous residence prescribed by our present 
laws. We repel the charge as a slander, and appeal to the records of 
the past. They have always proved themselves worthy of citizenship 
by their good behavior in peace, and secured special commendation in 
the despatches of our generals for their bravery in war. They have 
always manifested the same spirit that distinguished Lafayette at the 
Brandywine and De Kalb at the battle of Camden. We know no peo- 
ple more patriotic and regardful of law than these self-same sturdy immi- 
grants. They may manifest an impatience of illegitimate and unright- 
eous control, in other lands ; but as such a cause of ebulHtion of feeling 
does not exist here, the eJQfect does not follow. They areas proud of their 
adopted country, as was he in ancient times that could say, ^4 am a 
Roman citizen T' 

But it is said, particularly should the patriotism of Roman Catholics 
be doubted. We believe that there exists in the popular mind an unjust 
prejudice against these men. They are charged with all the sins which 
their forefathers did. They are' objects of apprehension now, because 
they were such centuries ago. 

It is true that Roman Catholics were formidable at certain periods in 
history. One of the Plantagenets humiliated himself to the esuth in the 
presence of the Pope. A queen of England is known by the name of 
the " bloody Mary." Conspiracies were formed to take the life of Eliza- 
beth, and blow up with gunpowder James I, and the Houses of Par- 
liament It is no wonder that the Test Act was passed, and the Ex- 
clusion Bill warmly discussed. These persecutions are attributable to Ihie 
moral and intellectual darkness of those ages. Protestants as well aA 
CathoHcs were guilty of bloody intolerance, and are less chargeable than 
they by reason of a mere deficiency of power. In the early history of 
our own country, where the reverse was true in respect to comparative 
strength, it was Protestants that persecuted, and Roman Catholics that first 
prodaizned universal toleration. Recent developments have proved that 
however much they love their pope, they value their civil and political 
liberties more. Pius IX was deposed from the throne of his temporal 
dominion, and compelled to flee from Rome. It was French bayonets. 


borae by the mercenaries of Louis Napoleon, and not the will of the 

Roman people, that subsequently replaced him in authority. Chirles 

Carroll, of CarroUton, a Roman Catholic, subscribed the Declaration of 

our Independence. He pledged his life, his fortune, of " a few millions," 

and his sacred honor, to be true to his country. Of those great men that had 

sat in the memorable Congress of 1776, he was spared by Providence to 

be the last to die. Roger B. Taney, a Roman Catholic, is the present 

Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. jETt^ nafM ti 

all the eulogy that he needs. We like much that old legislation of 1795, 

when the probationary time of residence, that at present exists, was first 

established. It was during the Presidency of Washington, the father of 

his country. The men of that time were greater in thought and word 

and deed than the present generation. They were the missionaries of 

progress, and left huge *' footprints in the sands of time." Of all men 

they most remind us of those heroes in the Diad, that figured in 

the council and field at the siege of Troy. ^ Hail ! fellows weU met ? 

—our Agamemnon, " the king of men," and our Achilles, " swift d 

foot ;" our Menelaus, " good at the war-cry," and our Nestor, " sweet of 

speech ;" our Ajax, " the tower of the Greeks," and our Ulysses, "the 

man of many arts." Although our republic was at that time weak, in 

the mere beginning of its growth ; yet these guardian sires, with all their 

love and tender concern for their bantling, were willing to trust their hi- 

eign brethren. 

It may be said that during the presidency of the elder Adams, the ex- 
periment of requiring a longer time of residence was tried. This was 
one of the measures that were passed by the Federalists of that period. 
But after a brief existence of four years, it became a dead letter in onr 
statute books, and was superseded by the length of previous residence rr 
quired in the enactment of 1796. Since 1802 the changes in these laws 
have been made mostly with a view to the prevention of fraud, in obtaining 
the requisite certificates. At the present day an immigrant may be nst* 
walized within the same time as that within which he might have 
been, during the presidency of Washington. The glorious history of onr 
past under this portion of the present laws, and the sanctities associated 
with its origin, " will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued against the deep 
damnation of its taking off." 

These immigrants too have a right to demand a speedy'naturalization. 
Our ancestry and the ancestry of many of them were old friends, and 
fought to the death side by side. They codperated at Runnemede and 
compelled John to sign ** The Great Charter,'* They had rejoicings and 


galardays in honor of the enlarging liberties of England. They with- 
stood the exactions of the brave and haughty Plantagenets, the despotic 
though cautious Tudors, the faithless and effeminate Stuarts. They took 
up arms with Hampden and Cromwell, and shed their blood at Mars- 
ton Moor and Naseby. They rejoiced to see Charles the First decapitated, 
for violating the Petition of Right, and endeavoring to seize the leaders 
of the Opposition. Whilst they believed that he battled for the rights of 
Eoglishmen, they were the strong adherents of that rude, great Oliver, 
who made England the glory and the terror of the world. They extort- 
ed from Charles the Second the Habeas Corpus act, and thus secured his 
rabjects against capricious and arbitrary imprisonment. They sympa- 
thized with Argyle and with Monmouth, and were routed at Sedgemoor. 
They excited the mirth and pleasantry of Kirke and his " Lambs," by 
their dying agonies and groans. They were tortured and scared to death 
by the Devil, when he held " the Bloody Assizes'' in Somersetshire and 
Dorsetshire. They participated in the rejoicings at White Hall, when the 
Prince and Princess of Orange were proclaimed the sovereigns of 

These liberties which the ancestry of many of these same immigrants 
cooperated to acquire, are valuable heritages from the past. Our fore- 
fathers brought them hither when they immigrated to this new land. 
They loved them with an ardor and a tenderness proportioned to the 
price that had been paid. They took up arms to defend them when 
attacked by the mother country. In that great struggle, the American 
Revolution, which followed, our forefathers were materially assisted by 
roFMgners. This is the way by which we have acquired the Constitution 
>f this Union. The ancestry of many of these same immigrants paid 
much of its cost, with their groans and convulsions, their shrieks and 
:ears, their sweat and blood. Our civil and political liberties have been 
ieveloping steadily but gradually from age to age. They may be likened 
X) Hercules, doing the mission of the Tirynthian Eurystheus. They put 
nts into the mouths of the anthropophagous horses of Diomede, and led 
!)erberus from in&mal darkness, snappish and growling, to the light 
>f day. 

These immigrants, too, exercise a powerftil influence over their coun- 
;rymen whom they leave behind. They describe to them at full length 
he nature and operation of our free institutions. They make particular 
nention of the period when it is allowed them to exercise the right of 
HijQ^^e. They write with much laudation concerning that social 

equality, which binds together the members of the Union. They depict 
vou xvij. 35 


in glowing colon their present enjoyments, and the hopes that they 
entertain for themselves and their children. They pray that the coining 
time may hasten with these blessings for their own native lands. The 
father on the banks of the Elbe, or the heights of the Pyrenees, gives full 
belief to the statements of his son, in the vale of the Mississippi, or on 
the Rocky Mountains of Oregon. It is these letter-writers that are 
spreading republican sentiments throughout Europe, and stirring up the 
nations from their torpid state. 

We would not wish to see our country great in waging offensive wars, 
and all stained with innocent blood. We would not wish to see her the 
arbitress of the sword, and holding nations in thraldom. Nor would we 
wish to see her taking steps backward in legislation, and turning a deaf 
ear to the lessons in her past We would rather see her what she alwap 
has been, and what we pray to God she always may be, an Asylum for 
the Oppressed. g. a. j. 

ilUmorabiiia DalttiBta. 


Thb day was as uraal cbeerlefls and stormy, yet at the proper hour a large aadi- 
enoe was present at the College Chapel. The number of speakers was quite large. 
Of the ezcelleoce of the Exhibition we shall dare say but little lest we expose our- 
selves to the unjust charge of au odious Class partiality. If, however, our judg* 
ment is not warped by such sentiments, and public opinion renders us confident 
that it is not, the display of eloquence and thought has never been excelled. The 
pleating variety of the subjects, and the almost total absence of any lack a-daisictl 
phraseology and sentiment, added not a little to the pleasure and interest of the oe- 
easioD. The music of the day was fiiroished by a selection chiefly from the Cdlege 
Choir and seemed to most, we thmk, far more appropriate than the brazen din 
which is usually furnished at our Exhibitions. The applause was loud and heart/i 
especially toward the close of both the morning and aftArnoon exercises. 

We are confident that few of the audience left unsatisfied with the intelleetoal 
treat spread before them. It is only a desenred compliment when we say that 
every member of old '63 feels that the speakers did ample justice to themselveB 
and to the Class. We subjoin the Programme of the subjects and speakers. 


** Boma Direpta," Latin Oration, James M. Whitoa 
Oration, '* Radicalism in America," Benjamin F. Baer. 
Oration, " Ignatius Loyola," Charles G. McCully. 

Dissertation, ** Civil and Religious Liberty, the Ultimate Result of CiviliaatioD,'' 
Hiram Bingham. - 


)ration, " The Distinguished Stranger," James McCormick. 

)ration, *' Traits of Indian Character," Joel Smith. 

Mssertation, <* The Power of Mystery," Joshua Anderson. 

Hseertation, *' Youth, a Probation," Cornelius Hedges. 

Hssertatioo, " New England," George Palfrey. 

►ration, ** The Scholar, the True Exponent of Freedom," Oliver E. Cobb. 

Iration, " The Refinement of the Sensibilities " Kinsley Twining. 

Iration, "Passive Obedience," Theodore Bacon. 

Philosophical Oration, '* The Higher Law," Isaac H. Hogan, 


^reek Oration, '* *H rfn raXatSs xotfjtrstas 1^0x^1^ Thomas F. Daviet. 

)ration, " Independence of Character," James M. Qillespie. 

)is8ertation, "Julian, the Apostate," Edson L. Clark. 

)i88ertation, " The Ancestral Glory of New England," William T. Gilbert 

)ration, " Change," by Charles H. Whittelsey. 

)ration, " Thoughts on the Mediterranean Sea," Samuel M. Caproo. 

Iration, *' James I, and the Puritan Party," Sherman W. Enevals. 

)ration, *' The American Soldier," Henry C. Robinson. 

Oration, '^On the Alledged Degeneracy of Literature," Benjamin K. Phelps. 

Hssertation, " Patriotism in the Universities," Andrew D. White, v 

)i8sertation, " On Knowledge of Soul as Derived from Reason and Revelation," 

Irew J. Willard. 

)ration, " National Characteristics," Charlton T. Lewis. 

Philosophical Oration, " Form of Political Organization," Edward 0. Billings. 


*HE resuscitation and reformation of the " Spoon" was, we think, a labor of love 
iie part of the Class of 1852, quite unparalleled, and they certainly deserve the 
}t hearty thanks of College and the *' Spoon"-going portion of the community, 
} character of the Exhibition is now fully established. Henceforth it is to aiObrd 
)pportunity for the display of the wit and ingenuity of those whom chance or 
lination may have excluded from a participation in the Junior Exhibition, and is 
t to furnish an annual resort for all lovers of humor. 

lie Exhibition took place at Brewster's Hall, on Tuesday Evening, May 26th. 
i day was necessarily, though unfortunately we think, fixed at a period some- 
it later than usuaL The Hall was crowded at an early hour with the intelli- 
ce and beauty of New Haven, to which numerous accessions from abroad wero 

'he Chair was occupied by Mr. Randal L. Gibson, of Louisiana, whose grace and 
Qity as a Presiding Officer, certainly added much to the pleasurable effect of the 

?he Spoon was of rosewood, about the usual size, and certainly inferior to none 
ich have been presented in past years, either in design or execution. The usual 
:ription, " Dum Vivimus Vivamus," wascut in deep characters upon the surface of 
handle, while that opposite, was ornamented by a heavy silver plate, on which 


was eograred the name of the recipient, " Jobxph A. Wkloh, Preeented by the 
Class of 1858." 

The exercises of the evening opened by waiting in breathleai saspeme for about 
twenty minutes. The Committee having discovered that the cause of this unwir- 
rantable tardiness on the part of the ** Homicinesy" was an miimtentiooal neglect od 
their part to face the mime in monetary matters, the cause was at oooe removed, 
and the Exhibition proceeded. The music during the evening was exeellent 

Our limits will not allow us to comment upon the merits of each speaker. We 
think, however, that the Colloquies have never been surpassed. The ** Aria et Bo- 
manza, et/* Ac^ of Beethoven was generally well received. The exquisite ridicu- 
lousness of the whole performance could not fail to excite the mirth of any, and 
more especially of the members of College. Personal delicacy forbids any speifi- 
cation of individual excellence in the execution of the music 

The ''Strophes" were well designed, appropriate to the nature of the subject se- 
lected by the Poet, well executed, and added in no small degree to the amusemeot 
of the evening. 

** A licaf from College Life," was too full of fun, and too enthusiastically received 
to need any comments from us. We hope future Cochleaureati will beat it— if tbey 

The ** Phi Beta Kappa Initiation," was perfect The fact that the ** Incog" of 
" Qrand-Cometary -Theory" notoriety, was its author, was sufficient to prepare the 
risible muscles of all who know the Gentleman, for vigorous action. The ** four-ceof 
system will not soon be forgpotten. The songs were written in a popular, easy etyli, 
just appropriate to such an occasion. They did great credit to their absent author, 
whose poetical ability is too well known to need any eulogy. May he never be 
less snccessful. 

The Presentation of the Spoon, by the Chairman, and the Reception by Mr. K. 
Walden, in behalf of Mr. Welch, were excellent As many of the audience left 
while they were speaking, on account of the lateness of the hour, the speaken 
were much annoyed, and their addresses were deprived of much of their legitimate 

Two fikolts were observed, which we are certainly pardonable in noticing, as they 
may serve as valuable hints to succeeding Classes. First, the number of ticketi 
was too large, and the house was so crowded as to render it exceedingly uncomfort. 
able both for the audience and the speakers. Secondly, the exercises were too 
much protracted by the great length of the speeches. This &uU cannot be too 
carefully guarded against in future. The same error was noticed last year, and we 
hope that its repetition will prove instructive. Not *' Too much of a good thing " 
should be the motto upon all such occasions. 

The evening was passed, we think, very pleasantly by most, and the prevailing 
opinion seems to be, that the "Spoon," though widely different in its character, is 
not a whit behind its sister Exhibition in its merits, or its share of popular favor. 

Trv exercises of this interesting Anniversary were not interrupted, as is too often 
the case, by rainy weather. The day was unusually pleatant and the city seemsd to 
have donned her fairest robes to say Farewell. 


rhe exercises commeoced at about ten o'clock, A. M., with the usual ceremonies. 
SD canie the Poem bj Wm. W. OaAPO of New Bedford, Mass., followed by a 
tin ode written for the occasion by Fisk P. B&ewer of Middletown, Conn. Next 
ceeded the Oration by Homek K Sp&aous of £ast Douglas, Mass. The exer- 
i8 were concluded by the singing of the Parting Ode, written by Albert Biqe- 
7 of Buffalo, K. Y. Of the merit of these performances we need say nothing, 
ticism we cannot, praise we need not give. The reputation of the authors is a 
ficient guarantee of their worth. 

Pbe dinner, with the "powers that be,'^ was, we presume, as good as usual; not 
Dg admitted behind the scenes however, we cannot say, certainly. About two 
ock, the members of the Graduating Class came hastening from behind the 
3eam into the circle on the grass in front. "Numerous tobacco" (imported from 
rkey direct, expressly for this occasion,) and " plentiful pipes" soon appeared 
ier the command of the indefatigable Seropyan. The afternoon was consumed 
h the usual number of songs, jests, and kind words, showing warm and full 
urts. When the shadows began to lengthen across the grass, the old fashioned. 
(Cession was formed with the music in front. On account of the recent afflictioa 
the President, the visits to the houses of the Officers were not made. But the 
ud last look and last cheer was given to the old halls that have for four years 
loed to their joyous or mournful footsteps. At the foot of the southern tower of 
: main front of the Library was placed an ivy vine, upon the roots of which each, 
n cast a handful of earth as the procession moved slowly by, that each might 
ist in planting that which shall remain here after them to tell of their afifection. 
the bell rang for evening prayers, the departing Qlass crowded the galleries to 
e a last glance at the places which shall know them no more. They are gone, 
; we still remember them and, in the name of those they leave behind them here, 
bid a hearty ** God speed" to the class of '62. 


?BR usual time having arrived, the Brothers and Linonian Societies, preparatory 
he coming campaign, have selected from among their members those who shall 
resent their interests at the next Statement of Facts. The election resulted in 
choice of the following 

Okatobs Foa Statement of Facts. 
From lAnonia^ 
Andrew J. Willabd, President, 
J. W. MoVeaoh, of the Senior dots. 
J. K. Hill, of the Junior Clan, 

From the Brothers, 
Alfred Grout, President, 
Benjamin K. Phelps, of the Senior Class, 
James C. Rice, of the Junior Class, 

)n Tuesday evening, June 16th, the usual Valedictory Oration was delivered 
ore the Brothers Society, by Cook Lounsbury, of the Graduating Class, vtfpofa the 
jeot, Ensrot of Character as am Element of Success. On the same evening 
imiliMr Oration was delivered before Linooia, by W. F. Huxphrkt. His subject . 
4 Manliness of Character. 





At the Prize Debate of the Calliopean Society, in the Freshman Class, held May 

26th, the Judges — Jas. Donaghe, Professor J. Hadley, and H. D. Wells, Esq. — 

awarded the 1st Prize to Hart Gibson of La., and the 2d to John W. Swaynb, 

of Ohio. 



Andrew J. Willard, 
Edward W. Seymour, 
Theodore J. Holmes, 
Asa B. Woodward, 
Luzon B. Morris, 
Lewis E. Stanton, 

Brothers in Unity, 

Alfred Grout, 

Vice Presidents^ 
Thomas F. Davies, 

Samuel M Capron, 

Timothy D. Hall, 

Henry E. Howland, 

Vice Secretaries, 
Stanley T. Woodward, 

Randal L. Gibson. 
Thomas P. Nichola& 
George A. Johnson. 
George A. Johnson. 
Luther M. Lee. 

1st Division. 
1st Prize, G. A. Johnson, 
2d « H. H. McFarland, 

Ist Division. 
Itt Prize. T. Wing, 
U ** G. DeF. Lord, 

U *' J. M. Smith, 

William Allison. 

Class of 1852. 
' Homer B. Sprague. 


Class of 1852. 

William P. Johnston. 

Class of 1856. 
John E. Todd. 


Class of 1852. 

W. W. Crapo, D. C. Oilman, 

J. H. Dwight, W. P. Johnstoa 

H. B. Sprague. 


Class of 1853. 

2d Division. 

A. D. White, 

J. K. Bennett, 
Class of 1854. 

2d Division. 

L. S; Potwme, 

W. C. Flagg, 

A. S. Twombly, 

Sd Division, 
E. C. BiUings. 
J. W. McYeagh. 

Zd Division. 
J. E. Lombard. 
O. Cutler. 
A Van Sinderea 





W. B. Dwight, 
W. H. Fenn, 

E. P. Buffet, 
C. Cutler, 
0. A. Dupee, 
H. E. Howland, 

Class of 1854. 
Ist Prizes. 

2d Prizes. 

0. J. F. Allen, 
H. L. Barnes, 

Class of 1855. 
1st Prizes. 

H. N. Cobb, 
W. M. Grosvenor, 
G. A. Kittredge, 
C. R. Palmer, 

2d Prizes. 

S. T. Hyde, 
L. S. Potwine. 

R. L. Keese, 
T. G. Ritch, 
O. 0. Sparrow, 
A. S. Twombly. 

J. "W. Harmer, 
J. E. Todd. 

G. Talcott, 
L. Tallmadge, 
W. Wheeler, 
A. Whiteside. 

1st Frizes. 

W. M. Grosvenor, 
J. W. Harmar, 
J. E. Todd. 


Class of 1855. 

2d Prizes. 

N. W. Bumstead, 
C. R. Palmer, 
G. T. Pierce, 
•• G. Potter. 

8d Prizes. 

L. D. Brewster, 
S. L. Bronson, 
H. R. Slack. 


1st Division. 
Ut Pnze. H. N. Cobb. 
2d " W. H. L. Barnes. 
Zd " S. T. Woodward. 


Class of 1855. 
2d Division. 
C. R. Palmer. 
J. A. Granger, 
W. Wheeler. 
N. W. Bumstead. 


8d Division. 
G. T. Pierce, 
C. M. Tyler. 
W. C. Wyman. 
L. D. Brewster. 


M. W. Allen, 
J. G. Btfird, 
G. E. Jackson, 

K Buck, 
Ij. C. Chapin, 
J. Cooper, 
J. Elderkin, 
C D. Helmer, 

I>. 0. Gilman, 
D. B. Green, 
H. 0. HaUowell, 
C. Loansbory, 

J. F. Bingham, Valedictory, Andover. 

W. A. Reynolds, Salutatory^ New Haven. 

F. P. Brewer, Philosophical y Middletowa 

Lowell, Mass. W. B. Ross, 

Milford. C. C. Salter, 

Newton, Mass. M. Smith, 

Alexandria, Ya. H. B. Spraguo, 

A. Terry, New Haven. 

Orland, Me. 
Wattsburg, Pa. 
Somerville, O. 
Buel, N. Y. 

H. McCormick, 

D. 0. Morehouse, 
B. C. Moulton, 

E. D. O'Reilly, 
W. L. Rowland, 

C. E. Vanderburg, Marcellus, N. Y. 


New York City. W. H. Odell, 

Reading, Pa. G. B. Safford. 

Alexandria. Va. H. S. Sanford, 

Wallingford. G. A. Wilcox, 

New York City. 

Waverley, 111. 


East Douglass, Mass. 

Harrisburg, Pa. 


Lower Waterford, Vt 

Lancaster, Pa. 

Augusta, Ga. 

Tarrytown, N. Y. 
Boston, Mass. 
New Milford, 



R. E. Dav, 
L. Howe, 
C L. Ires, 
A. W. North, 

J. AtW<KKl, 

W .W. Crapo, 
H. K. Dwif^bt, 

Green wicK 
New llavffn. 
Louisville, Kv. 

Huntrtvillf, Ala. 


J. L. Noyes, 

J. S. PiirtKIDB, 

G. G. Sill, 
M. Storrs, 

R. Hall, 

E. Iloujjhton, 

New Uedford.Mass. G. E. Hurd, 
Portland, Me. W. Stanley, 

J. F. Waring, Savannah, Ga. 


J.B.Hcndrickson, Poufrlikoopsie, X. Y. L. McCiilly, 
S. Lawton, Springtield, Mass. E. Sterling, 

Windham, N. H. 
Amesbury, Mass. 

Philadelphia, Pa. 
Holliston, Mass. 
Dover, N. H. 

Oswego, N. Y. 

(Ebitor (tabU. 

Hebe we arc, upon the brink. We must leap. The time has come, and gaa% 
when the Magazine ought to have appeared, and our Editor^s Table is all unwritten. 
The voice of the Printer, crying, "Copy," is truly Stentorian; besides, there it a 
still, small voice within. The question comes up, "What kind of an Editor's Ta- 
ble shall we write." The Devil guesses it will have to be short The Printer says 
it miutt be ; so it must, and thu8 far the question is decided. Then again, shall we 
leap into " that great Ocean" of tolerable and intolerable puns, " which rolls aroand 
all the College world." EiiitorK generally have an unmanageable passion tm pan- 
ning. Perhaps it might suit 8ome of our subscriberd. But then, Dear Readen I 
you really must excuse us. It is our pride that we never pun. In fact we are |Hin* 
ciplcd against it Our plea is " Not Guilty." So you are to have a punleess Ed> 
itor's Table— a real literary phenomenon — a prize fur Barnum, which would fkirly 
rival Miss Fejee. 

We are sadly behind tlie usual time in issuing the " Lit." Two or three eansei 
have made us so. We have, like everybody else, had other business on hand. We 
are inexperienced, and have been delayed through our ignorance. We are novioei 
in everything connected with publishing. For instance, when we asked oar Printer 
some question the other day, and he told us to " go to the Devil" we thought him 
not very complimentary at fir^^t, but have become reconciled to such insults. Hers 
we are at last, however. You have waited, and we thank you for your patience 
and shall endeavor hereafter to call for a less protracted exercise of that virtna. 
The other numbers for this term will be ready very soon. As time and space fail 
us, wo shall be obliged to defer our acknowledgments of Exchangee and Ckwtri- 
butions until the next number. 


Page 224, line 18, for books and monei/, read, and books; line 22, forjutt read 
nearly ; line 30, for grandson, read great grandson ; line 88, for difficulHtM, read 
differences. Page 225, line 16, for 1780, read 1720; line 40, for 1628, rwd 1713, 



Vou XVII. 

JULY, 1852. 

No. VllI 

®l)e (ftjentng of tlje Massatvt. 

"All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause, 
Save where the frantic wail of widowed love 
Gomes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers." * * * * 

" Within yon forest is a gloomy glen ; 
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb." 


Is the latter part of the eighteenth century, while at home British 

Uitorians were shuddering at the barbarous warfare of past ages, and 

^ Hie Biitifih pulpit rang with praises to the God of battles that men were 

[ glowing more humane and more Christ-like ; in this western world were 

tnacted, under the guidance of British warriors, scenes of blood, uniting 

ill tlie skill of civilization with more than savage cruelty. Of these, the 

&r-€uned " Massacre of Wyoming" unquestionably holds the first place, 

nrbetiier we consider the number of murders, the terror of the scene it- 

■di^ or the utter desolation which succeeded it It is not my intention 

to apeak particularly of the battle — ^far abler pens have told the story — 

bnt to select one of many similar incidents which marked that day of 

daughter and that night of despair ; and in one to convey, though faintly, 

fame conception of all. Suffice it to remind the reader, that on the 

moming of July 3d, 1778, a band of devoted freemen left " Forty Fort," 

I tn old stockade on the western bank of the Susquehannah, to oppose an 

I wtmj of British and Indian invaders ; but were totally routed, and most 

^ ff them slain in fleeing from the enemy. 

VOL. xvn. 36 


** Five buDdred of her brave that valley green 
Trod on the room in soldier spirit gay ; 
Bat twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene." * * * 

Henry bore a weary, way-worn maiden in his anns, as he stole stealth- 
ily down a deep ravine, which guided a mountain torrent on its path 
from the home of its birth to its ocean world; and whose bottom, 
roughly paved with water-rounded fragments of the shelving rocks above, 
told of a once mightier stream. Each side was a high precipice, and 
the pale gloom of the twilight shadowed them with a solemnity which 
could be increased only by the fear of immediate death ; and this too 
was added. That on the right exhibited all the variety of geological for- 
mation, which nature could compress into a perpendicular facQ of one 
hundred feet so that the rocks and earth assumed a new color at every 
imaginary step upward — for none would dare to attempt real ones— and 
all together, in the " darkness visible," seemed to be the pallet of the giant, 
who, with the parting rays of day, paints sunset clouds upon the western 
sky. But on the lefit, as if universal variety were too monotonous for 
nature's works, one face of jet-black rock extended upwards, until dark- 
ness and projecting crags cut off the view. 

On he went, anxiety made .the burden light, and wherever the way 
was clear, he ran, like a bold warrior, bringing a brave brow and stout 
arms to the battle-field ; but amid the underbrush which netted much 
of the little valley, creeping like the coward who craves refuge from vic- 
tory ; for pressing haste and more pressing secrecy were striving each to 
sacrifice the other. It was for her sake ; he had long since ceased to act 
with a view to his own welfare or happiness. When the first libation of 
blood was poured in New England to the God who made men free, he 
devoted himself to that service, and swore, aye, reverently swore, that his 
first king should be death, his only prison-house the grave. He had 
fought faithfully under that vow through years of toil ; and through 
years of anguish, to which the most grievous toil would seem a harvest- 
home ; for the bleached bones of three brothers were in his memory of 
the battle-field, and the broken hearth-stone of a desolate home haunted 
his hopes of peace. But the loss of all else on which to rest his aflfee- 
tions drew him closer to the orphan girl, to be whose guide and pro- 
tector through a lonely life was now his only prospect of happiness. Long 
had the chain which united their hearts been strengthening, until adve^ 
sity had softened youthful passion into a full stream of sympathy and 
confidence ; long had they wished that their names and fortunes might 
follow their feelings into union; but they did not wish to be merry when 


all else was mournful, nor could they sing the bridal song of festivity in 
I land where every house contained a " Rachel weeping for her chil* 

So Henry had said farewell, and started with the forlorn hope which 
eft Forty Fort in the morning ; promising that if it came to the worst, 
f all should be lost, and he be alive at sunset, he would endeavor to 
neet her at the head of this ravine, about four miles from the scene of 
he battle. It came to the worst indeed. He fought, not only until de- 
eat was inevitable, but until it was consummated, and then sadly turned 
lis thoughts from his country to the loveliest of its daughters ; and as 
le fled from the fiendish foe, to whom victory without blood was but a 
east without wine, the long line of his circuitous path was fragrant with 
he incense of prayer for her safety. He found her safe, and made 
lown to her his plan for the future. It was his intention to visit the near- 
8t house — which was probably not yet occupied by the enemy, as this part 
I the valley had been unmolested up to the time of the battle — and take 
nough to support them in a foot journey over the mountains to the east 
f the valley, expecting there to find a cordial welcome. He would leave 
er meanwhile at the head of the ravine. But if he could not return, 
bould Cora starve ? Better perish with him though it were by the toma- 
awk. She must accompany him even in this danger. Besides, her 
eep "Must we then part again ?" was stronger than any reasoning could 
e. She was weary, and had climbed many rocks and pierced many 
lickets in her lonely flight thither ; so he bore her in his arms as they 
astened down towards the mouth of the ravine. Let us leaf e them for 
moment where we found them,— on the way. 

A less pleasing party now appears to us, — half a score of warriors be- 
eath a clump of chestnuts. Their muskets were stojcked at a little dis- 
tnce from the trees, under which they lay, enjoying the cooling breeze 
"evening, the most refreshing boon of heaven, but caring more for man's 
ost accursed bane, of which many a bottle then and there was drained, 
et not carelessly, but watchfully they lay, as if something yet were 
Jeded to complete iheir brutal joy. They were a motley assemblage, 
1th strange and various thoughts. Some were fighting for loyalty, some 
r plunder, some for revenge. But they were of two races, between 
lich was a more marked distinction than that of motive, a wider gulf 
in difference of feeling. Some were children of the forest, from that 
inch of the human family, the thrilling notes of whose fearful war-song 
^e had their last echo in the hills of Pennsylvania; the mouldering 
Jies of whose manly warriors now sleep on the banks of her rivers, till 


the Great Spirit of their fervent worship shall call them forth to face 
their murderers. But these were no more than blood-thiraty savages, 
the worst types of their race. Some had crossed the sea as emissaries 
from a so-called Christian people to their Christian brethren, offering in 
the one hand death, in the other slavery. And one, who, though bom 
in America, seemed to differ not in blood from these ruffian teachers of 
love, these cruel followers of the cross, had given up his hopes of Free- 
dom, his own manliness, all that the patriot holds dear, for a traitor's 
life and a traitor's grave. And yet James Henderson loved, and loved 

Henry and Cora at length reached the end of the ravine, opening out 
upon a gentle slope, whose summit overlooked the beautiful valley of 
Wyoming. Here their path took a winding course downward; but 
half-in voluntarily they paused to glance at the magnificent scene before 
them. It was nearly dark, but the western sky had not yet ceased to 
blush at the awful deeds of that morning, and the reflection made the 
enchanting valley seem, if possible, tenfold more lovely, and changed its 
tears to smiles, as in every rock, stream and tree, it seemed to be ethere- 
alized into the very spirit of beauty. And above was the maiden, bud- 
ding, like the valley, into beauty, the full bloom of womanhood, under 
the better influence of her brighter sun, the sun of true affection. It 
seemed to Henry like an angel's dream, as he turned from one to the 
other, and the first bright hope of many dark years flashed upon his 
mind. To him it was night and morning. 

But the mom had not yet dawned ; or its dawn was shrouded in a 
deeper gloom. For as Henry gazed upon Cora, in her white garments, 
seemingly a disembodied soul hovering over the darkening valley, he 
little thought how soon the maiden would be all soul, the valley o^^ 

Not far to their left, south from the mouth of the ravine, was a little 
waterfall ; where the brook which we saw above poured playfully down a 
smooth rock, and threw a bright and cheerful glance all over the valley. 
But on this night the water fell like the snow-white tresses falling on an 
old man's brow, and that glance was his dying smile. No, this is mere 
fancy ; the stream played on as ever, though its sister streams were 
changed to blood ; and the rock smiled as ever, though its brother rocb 
were spread with the vulture's feast Still farther to their left, and more 
concealed by its proximity to the mountain heights behind them, was a 
clump of chestnuts. 

There lay eight beastly-looking wretches in a drunken sleep, but rest- 


leas, starting at the rustling of a leaf, though hardly able to rise. And 
there stood James Henderson, th© traitor, with one companion ; both on 
tiptoe, for something white is dimly seen fluttering in the wind at the 
mouth of the ravine to the north, and it is now too late to recognize the 
fonn of man on the background of dark rock. 

"A rebel signal of distress," muttered Henderson to himself. "Let us 
fire on them from here," he added, in a somewhat louder voice ; " how 
it'll astonish them, and then what fun to see them tumbling with their 
flag over the hill !" 

" Take care, there may be more of them than we can manage," re- 
plied his companion, a young Briton, the only one of the party who had 
refused to drink, and who, by his air of command, even more than his 
rich regimental uniform, seemed to hold a high rank for one so young. 

" No danger of that There's not a square mile of the valley that 
can number five of them." 

" But they may be women or children," replied the Englishman, hesi- 
Henderson had already seized a musket, and raised it to his shoulder. 
" In God's name, Jim, don't fire," continued the other, in a tremulous 
whisper, seizing Henderson's arm. " We've had nothing all day but 
blood, blood, until these savage red-faced beasts themselves are sick of 
it Their eyes glare like a hungry tiger's, and every thing looks red to 
me, like the blood of that woman Manaho scalped this morning ; and 
her last shriek seems to ring in my ears yet, calling me to judgment. 
Don't you hear it, Jim ?" 

As he uttered these last words, his voice rose to a sharp, wild cry, like 
a maniac's, and his grasp was that of a drowning man. The ruffian 
Bhook him off with violence, and he ran, madly reeling, down towards 
the broad Susquehannah, which seemed to him a river of gore — ^while 
the pale ghosts of an army of slaughtered patriots kept pelting him 
with their own bloody scalps, and driving him down to the brink. This 
was the wild fancy of the madman ; for the sight of so much cruelty 
and wo had driven reason from the child of Christian parents — ^the once 
kind hearted student of the Bible. The blow, though sudden, had long 
been threatened ; and the appearance of the deadly weapon, renewing its 
work of slaughter, but hastened the ruin which was already preparing ; 
as the iron rod draws the charged thunderbolt And the beautiful river 
bore his corse far from the valley. 

Henderson took deadly aim, for the angel of death pointeci the drunk- 
«wi*s weapon, and fired. The report rang through the valley, and as if 


making merry over misery, Echo playfully caught up the sound, and 
threw it from rock to rock, and from mountain to mountain, while all 
her children vied in carrying it back most fearfully to the murderer's 

Henry and Cora heard the young Englishman's cry, but thought that 
some poor wanderer from Freedom's broken fold had been driven by 
despair, or chased by death, up to the mountain-side. They had always 
looked upon the invaders as givers, not as suflferers of misery ; nor knew 
that the giving implied the suffering. And they listened, secure of ob- 
servation in the darkness, to know whether the wailing one was alone, 
or could be assisted by them. All sense of their own danger was lost in 
sympathy with a seemingly deeper distress ; the minute was multiplied 
by anxiety ; and warmly Henry clasped the maiden's hand, as he re- 
solved to go in search of one to whom their bond of common desolation 
had given a claim upon him. He clasped the hand of a lovely form, 
instinct with living beauty. 'Twas a precious casket, but precious only 
for the sake of its jewel ; a beautiful cage, but its beauty was only for 
the inspiration of the prisoned warbler. At that moment the jewel 
shone most brightly, the bird sang most sweetly, the heart throbbed with 
love and hope. The next, and he bent over a mass of clay, lifeless, use- 
less, whose awful stillness /(?Z^ of the grave. 

What is a broken heart ? When all that once was dear, shrouded in 
love and coffined in memory, sleeps with the past ; when the finger of 
Hope, which after sunset points to the east, awaiting the dawn of the 
morning, points him to the grave whose sun has set forever ; when every 
faculty of the mind, and every feeling of the soul, from outward percep- 
tion to inward consciousness, is destroyed, and there remains before the 
spiritual eye an infinite circle of darkness surrounding a picture of death ; 
then we say that the heart is broken. Such was Henry's. They say, 
indeed, that the broken-hearted cannot weep, but I have never seen a 
cloud too black for rain, nor known a grief too deep for tears ; and if 
the terrible shock forced an unconscious tear from his eye, I cannot think 
that it belied either the warrior's spirit, or the lover's sorrow. 

Henderson lighted a pine torch, and hastened up to his victims as fast 
as drunkenness and exhaustion would allow. The pale, fitful glare star- 
tled Henry, and as he looked up, James recognized his successful nvfl/ 
in love, but unfortunate foe in war, and the corpse of the only being for 
whom he had ever felt disinterested affection. Cora was dead — he was 
her murderer : the last faint glow of sympathy with humanity faded 
from his breast, and without it man cannot live. But we know not, nor 
care to know the traitor's grave. We see him for the last time, as with 


I cry of utter despair, he follows his English friend away from the 
icene of his most awful crime, and its speedy retribution. 

Then came up slowly his companions, who had been roused from the 
)rgies of their dreams by the report of the musket; and without oppo- 
iition seized and bound Henry. They carried him to the spot since 
mown as the "Bloody Rock," where, with fourteen of his companions 
n arms, he fell a victim to the unnatural cruelty of a woman. They 
?ere placed in a circle around the rock, and Queen Esther slew them in 
uccession with the tomahawk. And thus, throughout the night, the 
fhole valley reflected, in the darkness, the presence of the angel of 
leath, and 

** Sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and scream, 

To freeze the blood in one discordant jar, 

Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 

Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed, 

As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; 

While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed, 

And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.*' 

But nature had already drawn the veil of night over the valley, and 
e must take refuge in its shadow, before imagination assumes the hue 
f the grave. 

To a visitor at the present day, Wyoming presents no scene of deso- 
lUon. Many indeed among the living well remember 

** A woman, widowed, gray and old. 
Who teUs you where the foot of battle stepped 

Upon their day of massacre. She told 
Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, 
Whereon her father and five brothers slept^ 

Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave." 

ut now she too sleeps with her kindred, and the willow waves over her. 
nd when the bright sun shines upon the valley, no spot on the green 
irth is more attractive, for it seems like Paradise, and we cannot think 
lat misery finds a resting-place there. But when the night comes, and 
e clouds build an unbroken dome of darkness from mountain to moun- 
in, it seems to be one vast sepulchre. For then the beauties of its 
esent are dissolved in gloom, and memory, always most active in the 
ght, recalls the sad associations of its history. Then the nightshade 
»ens its venomed flower, the tree-frog croaks to the shrieking blast, the 
uely white owl drearily flaps its vrings, and Death, if we may believe 
e story of many an eye-witness, dances heavily with the pale ghosts of 
B victims, while their dry skeletons rattle in fitting chorus from a com- 
on grave. u 

284 KIOHT. [J 




NioBT — dark, unf&thomed, mjiterious night 1 
Witliin thy kingdom lies some potent chann ; 
For thou, twin sister, yet the foe of light. 
Thou only canst the power of day disarm. 
Thy realms are wide, and infinite thy sway, — 
O'er half creation's far-extended bounds 
Thy sceptre rules, pursues the track of Day, 
Overwhelms his brightness, and his might confounds. 
Thine is the silvery pomp of Heaven serene, 
The dear refulgence of the full orbed moon ; 
In beauty shines thy shadow-mantled queen. 
And fills the world with Night's illumined noon. 
Thine, too, the stars, which blossom in the skies, 
The shining flowers of still, secluded grots. 
Which pierce the mist their brightness beautifies, 
By angels prized — their own *' Forget-me-nots." 
And thine the cricket, chirping on the height. 
The murm'ring nightingale, in leafy tree, — 
These sing thy endless praises, Queenly Night 1 
And breathe a soft, delightful melody. 

Night, of sable melancholy hue I 
Of all the charms that cluster 'round thine hours, 
Refresh the heart, the thirsty sod bedev, , 
By far most precious are thy healing powers. 
Thy magic balm which, soothing, lulls the breast, 
Assuages sorrow and the pang of gneS, 
Puts pain to flighty bestows delicious rest, 
And brings, from care's corrosion, sweet reliel 
Each tone is hushed in silence, deep, profound, 
All motion ceased, each look, each quivering glance ; 
Close 'round our hearts thy potent spells are bound, 
Which calm the passions and our souls entrance, 
like as the fluttering bird endianted sits 
Beneath the serpent's clear, bewitdiing ^ye. 
And, charmed beyond resistance, quite submits^ 
Snared in a net from whence it cannot fly ; 


So gaze vre on thy sombre, shadowy iiEice, 

So bear thy birds in melody condole, 

Drunk with our dreaminge, thy delights embrace, 

And own the night — Enchantress of the sooL 

With wonder gazing do we strive to trace, 
O, crescent form, that ruVst the starry host I 
The reason thy serene and placid face 
Can drive old Ocean's waters to the coast ; 
Why, at thy mute command, the billowy flood 
In steady phalanx rides the hoary main ; 
Why rise the waves at thy majestic nod, 
Impetuous move, nor yet their freedom gain. 
More strange and awful far than even this. 
The power thou hast to rule the human heart. 
Subdue its passions, and its fearo dismiss, 
And quiet, peace, and gentleness impart. 
Mysterious influence, Night, thou hast, 
To quell fierce spirits which in strife engage, 
To smooth the troubled breast with clouds overcast. 
And bid the stormy passions cease their rage. 
Mysterious indeed this power of thine, 
Which e*en man's wild, impetuous nature soothes-* 
Which melts to tenderness, with strei^h divine^ 
Which captivates, delights, enchants, subdues. 
Thy breath avails to cool the fevered brain. 
To heal the injured, wounded, bleeding heart, 
To dry the tear affliction sheds in vain, 
Dispel the gloom, and bid sad care depart 
And thou canst bind us with a noble spell. 
Which, silent, secret, prompts to holy deeds, 
Which guides the heart where Truth and Right impel. 
And opes a listening ear when virtue pleads. 

Thou hast been called the image of despair, 
Thy gloom and darkness some interpret thus. 
And to thy clouds and silence they compare 
Whatever is frightful, foul, or villainous. 
But ever while one solitary star. 
With twinkling beams lights np the darkened gloom^ 
There speaks a voice flrom out the heavens afiir. 
Bids Hope revive, her smiling reign assume. 

We hail thy magic, bless its glorious might, 

In meek submission bow beneath its sway ; 

Yield to the influence of thu dusky ni^t. 

Enjoy its blesaings, and its laws obay I 
XVII. 87 



3S6 HIOHT. [Jl 

Nigbt^ dotbed in mantle dun, or eombre gray, 
Thy power it not u{K>n the heart alone. 
Nor yet doet thou tbj num'roiu charms array 
Only to soothe, reitrain and guide the bouL 
Thou art the raler of the mind as well, 
The mistress and the narse of pensive thought — 
The gentle influence of thy magic spell. 
The power and majesty of truth has taught 
Thine is the sought, the cherished, favorite hour. 
When Ckmtemplation leaves her sunless haunts, 
Within the grotto or the shady bower. 
And the world's bustle fbr a time supplants. 
Thine is the hour reflection loves so well 
To feed on thoughts unripened in the sun ; 
To nurse on truths the light of day dispel, 
Pursued with pleasuriB and with profit won. 
In the deep stillness of the midnight hour. 
Thought finds its tranquil and propitious noon, 
While Wisdom, in a fresh and plenteous shower. 
With kind profusion yields its priceless boon. 
This too the time when Fancy loves to roam. 
Boused by the influence of these witdiing hours. 
With wild and fbarless step through tracts unknown, 
All dedced in garlands gay of rosy flowers. 

The many glories of thy realm have oft 
By thine enraptured worshipers been sung ; 
By rural bards, in numbers sweet and soft, 
Which from the heart's own melody have sprung. 
Oft have thy beauties been the gold<«n theme 
In moonlit walks beside the shady rill, 
Whsie 'nMth the smile of youth's fond, hopeful dream. 
The lover's heart has gushed with joyous thrilL 

'Tis not thy glorious praises we would sing, 
Nor yet the sweet enchantment of thy shade; 
But to thine altar we would humbly bring 
Some little token of our homage paid. 
A lowly, simple ofiering we bear, 
No fancy picture, stained with spots of truth, 
No labored images of glittering glare, 
No costly gem, no brilliant thought forsooth. 
Ours is a lay both easy sung and plain. 
The brief redtal of a by-gone day, — 
Scenes witnessed while the mild and gentle reign 
Of Night poured Ibrth its purest^ hoUest my, 

NIGHT. 9§7 

Full many a day and many a iringdd year 
Have spedf with blooming Spring and Autumn ser*^- 
Full many a lengthened age ol hoary Time. 
Has passed away, as evening's yeeper chiBie,— 
In slow succession filled its meaaured space, 
Wrought its still work; and left its ailent trace. 
Full many a bright, revolving son haa abooe, 
Full many a star has gemmed the heavenly aoiie^ 
Since that blest day when forth from Judah't plain 
Light sprang, to save the world, from sin reclaim : 
From Judah's plains, her rich and sunny hilla, 
Encircled by a hundred warbling rills. 
! when we hear that ever eacred name, 
How burns the inmost heart with holy flame I 
How throng bright visions of a former age, 
Sweet musings from the oft-read, sacred pagB ! 

fjAvored land, blessed by Eternal Gk>d, 
Thy fields are holy, hallowed every sod I 
The murm'ring brooks which gird thy hills aroaod. 
Are blessed streamlets kissing sacred greund. 
With awful rey'rence on thy plains we gaae^ 
Land of the faithful, from the earliest days 1 
Subdued in soul we venerate each spot 
Which teems with mem'ries never yet fcn'got 
Thy consecrated soil to us is dear, 
Thy sunny, blooming vales, thy mountains drear I 

Of all the Earth thou wast supremdy bleat, 
When first at Heaven's command and high befaeet, 
Thine was the chosen spot from whence should flotr 
Its choicest, richest gifts to man below. 
'T was there, amid thy hills of perfumed fiowers^- 
There, 'mid sweet olive blooms and vine-dad bowen^*-^ 
There, 'round thy rocky grots and rude retrei^ 
Thy caverns dark, which sunlight never greets; * 
'T was 'neath the shade of thy majestie pines^ ■ 
Thy cedars^ circled 'round with ivy vines v 
There, 'neath thy dark, blue mountains' gloomy ehade^ 
Behind whose western brow the sunbeams fade;*- 
'T was there, beside the rivlet^s gentle waves, 
The warbling streams which edio through thy eavta. 
Beside the shore which girdi thy sea of death. 
Exhaling odors with its pois'nous breath. 
Whose briny vaporp, reaching to the sky, 
Are mingled with the bird's -expiring cry : — 

288 moHT. [Ju 

Yea, it was there, O Imnd of Jadah'R pride ! 
UpoD thy froitf 111 soil and Talleys wide, 
Where, in those awiiil days of olden time, 
Qod, in His wlBdom and His might sablime, 
Oft showed to feeble man's astonidbed view, 
Marks of His kindness and His anger too. 
'T was on thy blest and consecrated plains, 
The prophets sang divine and heavenly strains ; 
A race of holy men of QoA inspired, 
Who in a humble, lowly garb attired, 
Dwelt 'mong the sons of earth, their mission, love, 
And lived in sweet oonmmnion from above. 
T was from thy blooming fields of living green 
There sprang a fire divine, whose brilliance seen 
Illumed the earth two thousand years ago, 
Its work, to deanse the world from sin, its foe. 
Two thousand years ago in brightness burned 
That kindling beam, and darkness ne'er returned. 
That holy flame with lustre glistens still, 
Its rays the same glad, cheering warmth distill 
T was 'neath the clear, blue sky extended o'er 
Thy dark and narrow Tales and windmg shore. 
Where in a krwly hut, of comfort shorn, 
God's own incarnate Son on earth was bom. 
Thus was thy last, thy greatest trophy won, 
Earth's richest triumph since the world begun. 

In queenly splendor reigns the beauteous night. 
Naught bat one still, one grand, harmonious sight 
High up the heavens' transparent, crystal walls, 
The full moon climbs, and in her silence calls 
The starry myriads that watt to light 
Her journey through the clear and solemn night 
'T was such a night as oft in Eastern tales, 
Enchanted, we have read of perfamed gales ; 
Of %ighiog breezes laden with a freight 
From roses stolen, and the lofty date. 
When the bright moon with silver tips the trees 
Which gently quiver in the eVning breeze ; 
When o'er the meadows and the pallid sea 
The stars like diamonds shine, whate'er they be. 
'T was at a time as beautiful as then ; 
'T was night upon the plains of Bethlehem. 

The shepherds stood upon the grassy hill. 
Their nightly charge to keep their flocks from ill ; 


With watchful care they guard, protect^ and guide, 

While danger might their fleecj charge betida 

Perchance alone, uncooacious all they stood, 

With heavenward eye, or else in thooghtM mood; 

Or yet perhaps in groups they gathered near. 

And each in turn attends with listening ear 

To oft told tales of ancient shepherds there. 

Whose deeds of valor, or whose courage rare. 

Long hours of midnight watch had wiled away, 

E'en till gray morning told the coming day. 

And standing thus, or seated on the ground, 

The stars overhead, their snow-white flocks around, 

Lo I through the clouds a£etr their piercing eyes 

Discern a form fast sailing through the skies : 

Nearer it comes — while they more eager ga2e, 

Spell-boimd each lifeless limb^ no cry they raise *, 

Still nearer comes — ^high beat their pulses warm, 

As steady onward moves that angel form. 

'T has gained their midst^ and now around them spread 

A holy radiance, divinely shed. 

With dread unnerved, each limb was marble made, 

Speechless they stood, for they were sore afraid. 

Then from the deep, oppressive silence broke 

Winged words of sadness, sweetly, kindly spoke. 

And in the stillness of that lovely spot^ 

Night echoed back the thrilling tones — " Fear not.** 

" Fear not" — the heavenly visitant exclaims, 

" No evil purpose mine, no hostile aims ; 

Good tidings of great joy to you I bring, 

This day a Prince is bom — ^your Lord and King. 

Heed ye my words, that I may show the place 

Where ye can see the infant Saviour's face. 

Where, in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes, 

The lowly Jesus rests in sweet repose." 

The angel ceased, and in the stillness there, 

A sudden chorus filled the perfumed air ; 

Loud rung the anthem of the heavenly throng, 

And echoing earth and sea the strain prolong: — 

Night on thy winds the news convey. 

Let praises shake the trembling sky — 
A Saviour 's bom to man this day — 

Glory, glory be to God on high I 

With joy above and peace on earth, 

Loud will we swell the deafening cry ; 
All hail I we sing the Saviour's birth, 

Glory, glory be to God on high 1 

290 KIOBT. [M 

Agaio 't is Dighi,— beneath wboie dosky ihftde 
The stars shine dimly and the moonbeams fade. 
The busy world lies hushed in slumbers deep; 
Man yields his senses to refreshing sleep. 
O'er all the earth a hxAj stillness reigns, 
Which e*en the bussing insect scaroe profanes. 
The winding Kedroo murmurs in its flow, 
As if its roll were muffled — gliding slow ; 
While, from the bank which bounds its sluggish waves. 
The mounts of Olivet their summits raise. 
There, in the shadow of its western slope. 
Beneath whose archmg trees in darkness grope 
The prowling beasts, or slumber in their lair, 
Or birds with carols break the silent air, 
Entombed, and deeply sunk, a valley lies. 
Eastward the heights of Olivet arise. 
The Northern bound is formed by ridges bare. 
With gloomy tombs of princes buried there ; 
While on the West from temple, tower and wall 
Of David's seat, colossal, shadows fall ; 
There, 'midst the rocky eliff and olive tree. 
Lay hid the garden of Gethsemane. 
To this secluded spot the Saviour came, 
The man of sorrow, suffering, and shame, 
To shun awhile the brutal shout of foe, 
The sneer of scribe, the curse, and threatened blow ; 
He came, 'neath orange and pomegranite trees, 
Whose leaves stir gently in the evening breeze^ 
Concealed from cruel men to sit alone. 
Where none could mark the £ftlling tear or groan. 
Here, when his heart was full, he used to stray, 
Here came the King of kings to pray. 

Behold Him now, as on that fearful night 
Which marked the eve of Earth's redeeming light 1 

Ood's holy messenger submissive begs 
Some way to shun the bitter cup of dregs. 
Behold Him now ; — upon His face He &11S, 
And in the agony of prayer He calls ; 
We listen, and in accents of despair. 
To Heaven the Saviour breathes His fervent prayer: 
« 0, Father, if within Thy power it be, 
Let this full cup of sorrow pass from me ; 
And yet if feel I must Earth's greatest guilt, 
Not as I will, O, God ! but as Thou wilt" 

KIOHT. 891 

O, what a ^oeoe to atir the doUest hetrt, 
And to the coldest spirit 'wmrmth impart 1 
Well might the mooB, then asiliDg through the oight, 
Have paused awhile to gaze on socfa a sight ; 
Well might the trees have started from the ground, 
The rocks have left their resting places 'round ; 
Well might the earth in terror then have shook, 
Have trembled to its base with frighted look. 
Had nature paused at such a scene as this, 
Not one could wonder, lifeless as she is. 
But sinful man, he who was bom to feel, 
Can gaze, and every pitying thought conceaL 

Around the hill of Calvary there stood 
A mixed and motley throng, in angry mood ; 
The haughty priest was there, with taunting wxnrd. 
The soldier and the lowest rabble, stirred 
By blinded rulers, filled the noon-day air 
With curse and imprecation scattered there* 
Upon the summit of the hill from whence 
Was seen the noisy mob apd turrets dense 
Of that lost city, once the pride of God, 
Whose well known streets the ancient prophets trod. 
Was placed, in sight of all, a Cross of wood,-^ 
While near, on either side, another stood. 
Upon the middle cross the Saviour hung,— 
The Savioiu*, aye, God's own incarnate Son : 
He who in mercy left His bright abode 
To take from us the heavy, galling load 
Which crime and folly heaped upon our race. 
Doomed by our sins to endless, deep disgrace. 
No friend like Him will mortal ever know, 
Though man but proved His blackest, vilest foe. 
Around His head a crown of thorns they fit; 
Above — " Jesus, King of the Jews* — is writ. 
'T was noon, and to this hour in brightness shone 
The king of day, rejoicing on his throne ; 
But now, o'er all the earth was darkness poured, 
And day its half run course to night restored. 

An hour passed on — ^while o'er His frame there stole 
The sure, mysterious grasp of Death's control 
He spoke while deeper darkness 'round EUm grew, 
" Father, forgive, they know not what they da" 
A moment more, loud o'er the angry blast 
He cries~'"T is finished now,"*— and breathes His last 

202 moHT. [July, 

Earth knows no daricer, blacker night than this ; 
No blacker night is found in Hell's abyss. 
No moon shone forth to light the wicked deed ; 
And from the sick'ning sight the stars recede. 
Well did'st thoa hide thy pure, unsullied face, 
O Sun ! fr^m this foul scene of Earth's disgrace. 

Night is a sacred time, a holy hour, 

A space for pure and heavenly thought, 
Around which clustering hang with magic power 

Sweet memories of bliss unbought 

Night is a sacred hour, — the chosen time 

When through the expectant earth. 
Were heard glad shouts of joy in strains sublime, 

Proclaiming loud a Sayiour's birth. 

Night IB a sacred hour, — ^"t was 'neath the shade 

Which gathers 'round the midnight hour, 
The Saviour in the silent garden prayed, 

Hid by the gloomy vioe^xlad bower. 

Night is a sacred hour, — the place of Day 

At that sad, wofiil time it took, 
When man in anger sought Ood's Son to slay. 

And 'neath the blow Earth, heaving, shook. 

Night is a sacred hour, — 't is not the time 

For reveling, or wanton mirth ; 
'T is not an hour to plan the wicked crime. 

Nor give the fiendish plot a birth. 

No, 't is an hour when o'er the mind should stetf 1 

Pure, holy thoughts of sacred things *, 
And num's full soul in sweet communion feel 

The blissful peace night ever brings. 



tl)t JHorol (tltmtnt in dTnte ®rtatne00., 


GREATysss, either in abstract ideas or in concrete forms, enlarges the 
^uls of men, both by the appliance of passive facts and bj the infnsion 
>f active power. It is always a phenomenon peculiar in its nature, and 
sarries in its bosom a multitude of new facts, or of old focts in new rela- 
ions. But it also quickens thought as if by electric induction, inspiring 
he gifted and awakening common minds to new life. Its influence on 
he world is real, palpable, continuous, and the investigation of any of. its 
characteristics is always interesting and instructive. 

Human greatness always acts under a limitation of force that contracts 
he range of its operations. It may also act under the restraint of moral 
principle that gives it a direction to lofby ends — that ennobles it and 
xiakes it conscious of responsibility. It is to vast powers acting under 
ihis restriction that we apply the term Trtie Cheatness, We propose to 
consider briefly the nature of this restricting element in greatness, its in- 
iuence on the Individual and on Society. 

Whether our idea of right and wrong be original and simple, or deriva- 
ive and complex, the fact of such a distinction is certain. It is the foun- 
iation of all positive law, human and divine, and it remains unmoved by 
kU controversy as to its origin, and all ridicule as to its existence. Extend- 
tig throughout the realms of thought and traversing every field of 
iction, it subjects the great, no less than the small, to its imperious sway. 
die human soul is not and ought not to be an assemblage of equal and 
k)drdinate elements. There should be no republic, no democracy here, 
>ut a sovereign and absolute power, the moral element ; not annihilating 
»ther elements, but pervading, impelling and controlling all ; — a soul 
vithin the soul, playing at will the sinews of the mind ; — a central heart 
>ouring irresistible tides of magnanimous feeling into every channel of 
bought The perfect supremacy of this element is not so much a real- 
zed fact as a desirable gosiL Few of any class have attained it; fewer 
till of the highest order of intellect. When exhibited by men of other- 
vise common endowments, it imparts a dignity to their character from 
vhich we can never withhold our admiration. For though they may not 

iway the reason, they can yet win the heart ; though they may not sur- 
VOL. XVII. 88 


pass in creativiB genius, they can yet display heroic endurance ; though 
they may not soar with the philosopher, they can yet illustrate the sub- 
lime devotion of the martyr. But it is when this morality consecrates 
the mightiest intellect, that we behold the highest perfection of which 
human nature is capable. Our reverence for genius is then mingled with 
our reverence for integrity, and the sentiment deepens almost into adora- 
tion. History pictures no scenes of more intense interest than those in 
which truly great men have fought with superstition and tyranny, when 
the noblest intellects have had to deal with the basest passions, when 
spiritual has grappled with brutal force, and the shining weapons of truth 
have clashed against the helmet, the spear and the battle-axe. It 
kindles in us no deeper joy than when it paints the victory of ethereal 
souls, like that of Socrates in this unequal conflict with fiendish malice, 
and even though physical tortures may have forever sealed their lips, we 
still exalt in that undaunted spirit which seemed to exclaim with Massio- 
ger's Virgin Martyr, in tones that should ring through all time, — 

" The visage of the hangman frights not me I 
And all your whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires. 
Are scaflbldings on which my soul climbs up 
To an eternal habitation." 

From this consideration of«the real existence, the true position, and the 
high dignity of the moral element in true greatness, let us turn our 
attention to its influence on the Individital, 

The energies of great men are constantly liable to aberration from the 
line of duty or to settled perverseness in wrong-doing, for strong intellect 
is constantly stimulated even to its appropriate work by strong passions. 
And these passions do not cease when their work is accomplii^ed, but 
ever urge onward with irresistible impetuosity, and there is no point at 
which they are permanently satiated. There is a fascination in their 
objects that seems to enslave the will, to fix the bewildered glance, and 
to draw the man nearer and nearer with preternatural power. And 
while this strong magnetism enchains the mind, there is too often a fear- 
ful disrejsrard of duty in the choice of means. Who doubts that 
Napoleon's ** proud precipitance of soul" hurried him to the commission 
of many deeds, from which he would have shrunk with horror, if the 
bewitching spell of his fierce passions could for an hour have been com- 
ptetely broken ? The peculiar temptations of grtot minds, therefore, 
especially call for the restricting, conservative element of conscience, 
under whose guiding power character is ever ennobled by a consecration 
to the highest aims, and is never degraded by the use of unjustifiable 
, means. Thus their life becomes straight-forward and plain. Howard 


was troubled by no feare as to his consistency, by few doubts as to the 
future, by few regrets »s to the past. Thus too, their life becomes one of 
heroic self-denial; for high-moral excellence, by tolerating only noble 
ends and just means, often throws obstacles in the way of ambition. 
The path which is walled on either hand by eternal principles, often leads 
away from riches, dominion and fame. Moreover, the very disinclination 
of a truly great man to trumpet abroad his actions, while it enhanoes his 
merit, strongly conspires with the restricting force of the moral element 
to withdraw both deed and doer from sight How much magnanimity 
and self-sacrifice, worthy to be graven in letters of fire on the tablets of 
the world's history, have thus eluded the search of the historian, we may 
not estimate. Yet when we read the long list of gigantic minds with 
dwarfish consciences, of patriots who have darkened into traitors, phi- 
losophers who have dwindled into sophists, divines who have sunk into 
bigots, we may still be cheered by the thought that numberless benevo- 
lent, grand and heroic deeds, never chronicled by man, are forever regis- 
tered in the " book of life ;" and that the glory of the noble few, who, 
though regardful of conscience, have yet wrought out an earthly immor- 
tality, is not mere electric flashes of intellect illumining the dark doud of 
a corrupt character, but is as serene and constant 

** As th6 morn. 
When, throned on ocean's wave, 
It blushes o*er the world I" 

But it is not as a restraint, a mere negative force, that the moral ele- 
ment in true greatness exerts the most important influence on the indi- 
vidual. It is a positive, impelling power. It brings great and inspiring 
truths before the mind, and it assigns the man his solemn mission to per- 
form. Whatever furnishes exalted subjects for contemplation and 
creates a necessity of gaining distinct conceptions of them, gives an 
impetus to the intellect, calls out its energies, and arouses enthusiasm. 
The world is not all common-place to him who acts under the inspiration 
of high aims, conscious of his true worth as a human being, and ttmg- 
^ng into the light of that divine truth which brightens and glows as he 
approaches its center and source. It puts on new appearances of beauty 
and grandeur, and suggests new, interesting and instructive topics of 
thought Nor is this all. Cold, passionless intellect does not furnish 
every truth of which we are conscious. There are others and those the 
most important, which come to us from anotibier source, which escape the 
most searching intellectual analysis, and which afford the strongest motives 
that can operate on the will. They are the truths of feeling and the 
ruths of religion, which are realized by the heart rather than measured 


Millennium^ — ^all evince how little they appreciate men and things. The 
difficulty is increased by the arts and impositions which even a Napoleon 
could stoop to employ with a dexterity that would do honor to a magi- 
cian. The effect is obvious. Prominent men are seen through chromatie 
lenses, in glorious colors and colossal proportions. 'Their greatness, 
genuine or counterfeit, with or without morality, rules the world of mind. 
It grooves channels through which thought flows for ages, to enrich and 
beautify like the Nile, or to waste and blacken like melted lava. Stand- 
ing above and beyond the masses, it beckons them forward, and, for 
safety or for peril, they obey. Sometimes acknowledging the supremacy 
of conscience, it fills them with its ow^ intense love of right and abhor- 
rence of wrong, its lofty thoughts, its fervent devotion. Sometimes 
enlisted against conscieuce, it implants principles of which the fruit is 
atheism, violence and moral death. It is, therefore, of the highest 
importance that the great teachers of mankind be themselves " taught 
of God.** 

Imitation of great men is either unintentional or designed. Whether 
we will or not, we insensibly become like those we admire, and catch the 
spirit of the god we serve. Few escape this unconscious imitation, far 
few do not idolize some great man. The tones of passion or of senti- 
ment which are poured forth from a master's heart, throw into sympa- 
thetic vibration the universal chords of feeling, and call up a thousand 
responsive strains. Myriads of satellites circle round a sunlike soul, 
reflecting its light, and resembling it in all save its magnitude and splen- 
dor. Thus, whether the object of homage be a Plato or an Aldbiades, a 
Ohesterfield or a Brummel, his admirers grow imperceptibly into a 
resemblance of his shape. But the soul, instinctively longing for some 
model in which centers every excellence, and towards which it may ever 
aspire, also designedly imitates its favorite hero. In its enthusiasm it i& 
prone to conceive him as the embodiment of all that is worth possessing. 
Imagination gilds even his misdeeds with alluring charms, and &ncy 
paints them in the richest and most deceitful colors. His grace and 
deformity, his symmetry and distortion, are alike faithfully copied. Eveai 
when the most glaring crimes insult the confidence and mock the devo- 
tion of his followers, they still cling to their idol, and can be hardly torn 
away. His wickedness infiised into their breasts, becomes an intoidcating 
poison, obscuring the old landmarks of right and wrong, unfixing, con- 
founding, or shutting from view, those great principles, which should be 
lighthouses before the mental vision. And though the enthusiastic 
resolve to imitate him should at last vanish, the deep impreasion iHiieh 


has been made upon their character cannot he ohliterated, the tinge it 
has received cannot fade entirely out. The mold may be thrown aside, 
but the shape it has given remains. 

This consideration of the power of greatness in fashioning the charac- 
ter, in teaching truth or error, and in building institutions, shows that it 
controls the destinies of multitudes, and that whether it be the vicegerent 
of God or the vicegerent of Satan, depends upon the sovereignty or sub- 
jection of the moral element. 

It were an interesting task to trace the eflfect of Christianity on the 
moral element in true greatness, but at present we can barely allude, in 
general terms, to some of the advantages it has brought. In the summer 
of Grecian and Roman glory there were some whose intellectual and 
moral power justly entitle them to rank among the truly great Their 
renown is the more deserved, because they strove against a tide of super- 
stition, and were good and great in spite of fortune. Their established 
religion was to a great degree divorced from conscience, and faith in their 
gods was a hindrance rather than an auxiliary to morality. They were, 
therefore, launched at once on the sea of speculation — a sea that afforded 
no anchorage, because its bottom was but a shifting mass of conjecture. 
Their moral firmament was overspread by a thick haze, on which the dis- 
pdling beams of Revelation had not yet shone, and through which the 
rays of natural religion but faintly struggled. Charity, then, to the many 
who sank in the depths of immorality, when no arm was miraculously 
outstretched to save, and triple honor to the few who were buoyed up by 
a faith which no prophetic pen nor evangelical voice had inspired ! On 
this ocean of doubt and gloom the light of Christianity at last broke. 
The rocks and whirlpools, the |K)ads and havens were now distinctly 
revealed. The great nebulae which obscured the firmament were now 
resolved into congeries of shining points. Immutable principles became 
beacons to the soul, and truths resplendent as the stars illumined its 
pathway. This, therefore, is one great effect of Christianity ; it affords 
fixed points where there were none before, to which, in the midst of all 
perplexities, the mind may recur for guidance, and from which it may 
draw conclusions of vital importance as rules of action. It thus imposes 
a weightier responsibility, and awakens a higher inspiration than fell to 
the lot of Grecian or Roman genius. 

It lifts the mental gaze above life's every-day baubles to glories unseen 
but by the eye of faith, and draws down Promethean fire to rest upon 
the soul like cloven tongues of flame pouring a flood of radiance into its 
dark recesses, and fusing thought, passion, will, into one glowing mass of 
entiiasiasm, which joys in opposition, scorns danger, and smiles at death. 


%i)e Soung iHrtamfr. 

Dbbam od, while Life's yonog morn is bright ; 
Too soon will Sorrow's statless night 
O'er &11 thy visions cast a blight. 

And bring a sleep that knows no waking : 
Dream on, ere yet the weight of care 
Shall hhadow o'er thy brow so fair, 
And leave its farrowed impress there, 

Or olonds arise that know no breaking. 
Bream on ; — the time may never be 
When dreams shall come so sweet to thee 
As now, from every trouble free, 

When high thy heart with hope is beating ; 
Dream on, while yet no troubled past 
May round thy dreams its shadow cast. 
And, counted not, the moments fast 

Are hurried by like rainbows fleeting. 
Dream on; and may an unseen band 
From some far distant, blissful land. 
As softly round thy couch they stand, 

Their watch about thy pillow keeping. 
Bring dreams to thee, sweet, peaceful dreams 
Of meadow green and winding streams. 
Where through the trees the sunshine gleams. 

And willows o'er the wave are weeping. 
Dream on ; thou hast a world within 
Where yet the blighting touch of sin 
Not oft, with its frail mark, hath been ; 

The storms of passion never knowing : 
Without is strife, — within in peace, — 
Would that thy dream might never cease- 
To wake would bring of toils increase. 

Nor add to pleasures overflowing. j. k. l. 



" ;3lb0tractiom0t0 in |IoUtical grience/' 


PounoAL Science » a Inimcli of morals aiming at the hajypineas 
of communities, and the development of Society, by determining the 
relations, causes, and destiny of government. Political Science is com- 
posed of general principles, and particular applications. It therefore 
requires a division of labor, by which the discovery of elementary prin- 
ciples shall be entrusted to one class of thinkers, and their application to 
another. The former may be designated as abstractionists, the latter as 
politicians. The politician, enlightened and patriotic, it a statesman. 

Abstractionists have followed two forms in developing their ideaa; 
the one poetical, the other logical ; and these forms, as well as the 
object in view, nearly coincide with distinct lustorieal periods. The 
rise of modem political liberty, marked the beginning of the second pe- 
riod. The scope and object of political speculations in these two eras, 
Iiave their distinctive characteristios. In the first age political science 
was a fine art, the grand aim and feature of which was, beauty — ^beauty, 
robed in romance, gilded with genius, and hymned in strains of sublime 
melody. Gk)vernment was a magnificent temple to the Gods, and not 
the abode of men. The earlier theorists were poets^ not philosophers. 
Distrustful of their design, and fettered by circumstances, they affected 
to please the imagination rather than to satisfy the reason ; and offered 
their productions, adorned with the flowers of fancy, and the richness of 
rhetoric, as studies, not as models. Plato, in spite of his clear percep- 
tion of first principles, and his practical genius, education, and experi- 
ence, arrayed his *^ Republic " in the splendor of beautiful imagery, and 
the magnificence of elegant diction. Sir Thomas More, whose pursuits, 
disposition, and mental discipline, whose wisdom in measures and max- 
ims might have tempted him to practical effort, — marred his work with 
absurdities, to amuse the jealousy of despotism. Evils scarody felt in 
the ancient world, force themselves upon the attention of the modems. 
Society is distempered, and demands relief. In its haggard, hungiy look 
can be read the misery, disease, and crime which are preying at its 
heart The pathos of reality has banished the poetry of fancy. The 
philosopher is a physician, for his aim is amelioration. The mamspring 
of his speculation is utility. Anxious for this «iid, and desirous of in* 

VOL. XVII. 39 

302 f^AirsTRAonoirim nr potrnoAiMnnirot.'* [July, 

^^^*^^^^^^'^^— ^*^™^^— ^^^ ■■ ■ ■■■»■ ■ ■■■■■■—■■■I i»p»«»ii—ia*« ^^^m^^^ I I IM^^i^^^,^fc^>^Mj|^B^^^^M^^^— ^^^^^ 

vesting his plans with an air of truth and practicability, he presents them 
systematized in logical form. Of this kind were Harrington and Hume, 
Mill, Bentham, and Fourier. A comparison of the merits of these two 
classes will show, that wl^e the poetical class attracts students and ad- 
mirers, to gamer golden fruit aniid a lavish luxuriance of blossom, the 
logical wins disciples and adv\>cates, to adopt the belief, and preach it, 
and die for it The former pleases as a fiction, llie latter proselyteB as a 

Abstractionists may also be dassified according to the means adopt- 
ed for efitoing their objects, into rational and mechanical. This dii- 
tinotion runs through all forms and designs and eras. Thejnfiehuii- 
cal abstractionist hopes to redeem soci^ from the outside, to effect the 
tods of political science, by perfecting forms of govep^nent The ra- 
tional abstractionist looks through this external film to man^s inward na- 
tnre, and the mdimental conditions of society ; and relies on moral and 
mental agencies only. The'former appeals to mechanism. His machine 
is government, whether mob or Leviathan be his motive power. Hie 
latter appeals to natural forces. The human soul is his lever. The for- 
mer believes that perfect virtue and legitimate progress will follow a &- 
vorite form of government ; the latter thinks that improved natioBil 
character will produce more perfect political establishments. They are 
both right — ^both wrong. Together they are' a power in sodety— ^apaii 
an insufficient force. 

A mighty tendency to speculation prevails among men. lliey love 
abstractions ; and a great truth, or a great plausible falsehood, mt 
ply enunciated, has a wonderful effect upon tlie mind« Besides a long" 
ing to comprehend the infinite, the mind possesses a love of umplidtf, 
which grapples generalities, and dislikes exceptions. Henoe men ratkr 
rest their foith upon a formula, than a complete system ; and love^ wiA 
a phriase, to cut the Gk>rdian knot. But this reception and application 
of elementary truths, is sometimes modified by a desire to discover and 
systematize their necessaiy connections and relations. 

There are certain periods which develop such a tendency to an tf* 
traordinary degree. Political speculation naturally thrives most in lef- 
ohitionary times. In the mad struggle for glory and pow«r, the acton 
abandon petty expedients, trust to first prindples, and work wiA ^ 
ments, — they cast away the old compass of state, and look to the oaidi* 
nat points alone. Plato wrote amid the turmoil of the Aihennm demoe- 
fAey ; More Mved at the crisis of the Reformation ; Hairington shared 
in the aSairs of the Rebellion ; the Encydopedists and the FVenoh Bero* 



Itttion were coincideat ; and while the American Revolution was change- 
ing the destinies of humanity, Jefferson was assisting to rear upon a basis 
of abstract formulas, a political fabric, the embodiment of the praoticaL 

Certain national institutions and habits of study, create this tenden* 
cy, and modify its results^ Democracy, stimulating mental activity and 
freedom, gives an abstraction significanoe and range. Theories seekinjp. 
realization most cautiously avoid extravagance, and hence fall into a log-, 
ical form ; and if they are good, do good, but if evil, are doubly dan- 
gerous. Under other governments^ contrary causes produce contrary. ef-, 
fects. The studies which especially urge men to politicai speculation, are 
metaphysics and morals. The mind bent upon abstract conc^tions, and 
on the invisible, yet active part of man, learns to appreciate the inherent, 
power of thought, and the value of an idea. The study of government 
and a share in its administration, is apt to impel a mind otherwise specu- 
lative, to political abstraction. 

Success in speculative politics requires great genius, characterized by 
wiplicity of thought, by laborious patience^ by sedateness of soul, by 
enthusiasm for knowledge, and by a power of generalization, which elim* 
inates truth from the rubbish of particular &cts. The representative ab-. 
stractionist has a mind constructive rather than inventive ; working by. 
rule always, by intuition never ; destitute of expedients, and shunning 
compensation and contrivance, like subterfuges. 

The struggle of a soul in the darkness of life, to wrest perfectnesa 
from the bosom of chaos, is thought, and out of it is bom an abstrac- 
tion, which assumes, to the abstractionist, the vividness of reality. Ln-i 
agination endows it with vitality ; it becomes a life and a being ; person- 
ification yields to incarnation. The abstractionist worships his own 
creation, and sacrifices himself to it ; death, is nought but meeting his 
ideal face to isyco. Thus are made the martyrs of a political abstraction. 

As natural causes are few and simple, so the laws by which the 
progress of nations is guided, are general and comprehensive. To gov- 
ern without them is to incur the penalty of their violation ; to decide 
what they are, generalizatioQ is demanded. Generalization is i^iastery ^ 
Napoleon generalized the art of war, and adding strategies to tactics^ 
beat all Europe. Assayers of thought are wanted, who, testing systams,^ 
•hall simplify governmental science to the comprehension and apprecia- 
tion of mere observers, until it becomes a popular science, and is con- 
formed to a perfect standard. A thinker, a nation, a civilization, in the 
problem of its existence, may add no more than a single truth to the 
power of huiQaQ knowledge, yet it has not existed in vain. . I^Q 4b9t|f9pr 


tioDtst solveB and emmciates these problems. Ages manifest in mm 
certain movements of mind ; the world moves to a measured rhythm ; 
the abstractionist catches this cadence, as the soond of distant mnne. 
He expresses the vague, undeveloped thought of the people — ^what the 
huge, dumb world feels, but cannot speak. Lake Daniel, interpretisg 
Belshazzar's dream, he r^tds alike the mystery and its meaning. The 
cki^ merit of the abstractionist lies in this cabalistic skill, in settling the 
atioms and definitions of politics, and simplifying the properties of gor- 
emment to elementary propositions. He is like the mountain peak first 
illumined with the morning sun-light Thus More, in his Utopia, recom- 
mended religious toleration and milder penal codes, when toleration wsb 
thought a heresy, and humanity a weakness. Harrington first intro- 
duced the ballot-box — the lever of liberty. The commercial legislation 
of England was an impoverishing drain, until Adam Smith announced 
that '* all property is wealth," and further developed the great prindplei 
of commerdal reciprocity. 

Political abstraction which offered so rich a harvest to the thinker, ii 
hedged with dangerous consequences. Whilst tempting prizes reward 
success, errorlncurs the most terrible penalties. The visionary who once 
plights himself to fallacy, nevermore knows respite : like the peijured 
Enight of the Legend, when rejoicing in the silent forgetfulness of re- 
nounced folly, the spectre upstarting clasps him in its fleshless aims, aod 
whirls him away to the house of the dead. 

The first danger of the political abstractionist, is precipitate gme- 
ralization. His duty is to say what is law, and not to make laws; he k 
a commentator, not a legislator. Generalization is a Titanic straggle of 
mind against the limits of time and space, which are vincible only by 
labor. To assume elementary principles, and jump at conclnsions, ii 
wrong, and leads to infinite fidlacy, but especially to the neglect of new 
causes, which may subsequentiy arise. To direct the future, man most 
not only know its general outiine, but its accidents, which constantly 
change the course of humanity. Among these are individual influencee, 
which the abstractionist neglects, and with two brief formulas, ^ The force 
of circumstances" and the ^ Feebleness of man," obliterates from the scheme 
of Providence. Yet the human will is the lordliest thing in nature. A 
man who is a man, in all his godlike strength is too strong for &te, and 
can arrest it. England and wearied nature clamor for monarchy, but 
sturdy Cromwell bids them haltr— and they obey. Anarchy sdies 
France, but Napoleon dethrones anarchy, that he may reign. Destiny 
predicts subjection and d^endence for America, but Washington, with 

1852.] I "abstractionists is political sciknck." 305 

hisstioiig army of tibinkers, reverses the oracle. Thus men arise who 
thwart theory and spoil speculation. 

The second source of error, is the effort of the abstractionists to 
aeeure too perfect a simplicity and unity of system. He forgets that 
simplicity in enunciation does not forbid complexity in operation ; and 
eaanot comprehend the prerogative of divinity, to express one idea with 
a thousand forms, to combine numberless sets of means for the accom- 
plishment of one end. The human soul is insatiate of completeness and 
hannony. The finite thinker painfully elaborates a system, and exult* 
ia^y exclaims, " This is perfection." But he mistakes the shadow for the 
substance, as one who gazes in a rippling stream, will see distorted 
imagery of bank and tree and overarching sky ; he mistakes the sea- 
shell's mimic music for the ocean's mighty roar. These causes led to a 
riolation of the unities of political science. The unities of time, place, 
and action, are violated, when the theorist forgets, that happiness is the 
end of government, and adaptiveness of institutions the main agent in 
securing it — that perfection is an* attribute of deity alone — and when he 
introduces the properties of Paradise upon the earth as a stage, unmind- 
fiil that celestial light must dazzle mortal eyes, and celestial raiment be 
too fair for mortal form, that earth-bom Semele perished in the terrible 
embrace of the lightning-mantled Jove, 

The third cause which leads astray the abstractionist, is the union 
of untutored reason and over-wrought imagination. His characteristics 
are too often a reason, which appreciates a fact, but not its Consequences, 
and an imagination, somnambulic, day-dreaming, and rioting in extrava- 
gancies. In this unreal light, perception is blinded, and judgment ceases 
to be a guide. The theorist becomes a fanatic. Brilliancy of expression 
supersedes just thought ; and ingenuity outweighs utility. Hence arises 
a disregard of consequences, and a tendency to Ultraism. Hence 
originates the effort to carry out, to their fullest extent, in practice, theo- 
ries which should pretend only to guide. Hence springs the attempt to 
secure the immediate adoption of immature plans. Providence, more 
wise, develops the designs by a slow and gradual process. The hus- 
bandman casts abroad the seed in the autumn, and waits for revolving 
seasons to bring him the harvest ; the abstractionist alone demands a 
sudden return for his labor, and cannot bide the time which will crown 
his system with success. 

The whole character of the abstractionist may be thrown into its 
strongest lights by a brief contrast with that of a fellow-laborer in the 
political field. The same depth of thought may belong to each, but the 

306 LIGHT. [July, 

Statesman must also possess passion and operative energy. The oae is a 
man of meditation, the other a man of action ; the one deals with the 
possible, the other with the existent The great merit of the former is in 
the justness and moral sublimity of his thoughts ; of the other, in the 
excellence of his results. The most qpmmon fault of the former is in 
looking at things too little as they are ; of the latter in looking at them . 
too little as they ought to be. The abstractionist regards men as pawns 1 
on a chess-board ; the Statesman as powers in society. While to the 
former falls the golden meed of future glory among the enlightened few; 
the latter wins the rich reward of present power, and survives in the souls 
and imaginations of endless generations. 


Mtstesious essence 1 Sunbora child ! 
XJoknown companion of the day I 
We mortals love to see tbee play 

Throughout creation, free and wild. 

Yet would we better love to trace 
Thy path, when, leaving far behind 
The thoughts that flow from human mind, 

Thou springest o'er the bounds of space,— 

The victor of eternal night, — 
To drive the powers of Darkness back, 
And pierce the drapery of black, 

Which hides them from the angels' sight. 

But no ; the eye of God alone 

That distant battle-field commands ; 
To whom the suns are golden sands 

That sparkle round His chariot-throne. 


And what art thou ? A holy veil 
To shade the ghost of Deity, 
Lest darkness-loving man should see 

Essential Lights and manliood fail 

.] LIGHT. 807 

A shroud of^gkry, and a tomb 
Where lies that " Unapproached Light,"-^ 
The dwelling of the Infinite, — 

Secreted in sepulchral gloom, 

And waits till He io sorrow bom 

Shall ope the gites of Paradise, 

And to its own eternal skies 
Call up the resurrection mom. 

He is the life, and thou the blood 

That brings the life to every part, 

Of threefold essence one thou art^ 
Bright emblem of the triune Gk>d. 


Some say thou art an ocean wide. 

And on the fast retreating shore 

The angels hear thy breakers roar. 
While onward rolls thy restless tide. 

Thy waves dissolve the star-strewn sky. 

Or melt the one bright orb of day ; 

Then dash to Earth their radiant spray, 
And pour it in a humtti eye. 

Mysterious, all encircling sea I 

How blest is many an islet world 

On which thy thronging waves are hurled, 
To be forever bathed in thee. 

O may thy fertilizmg power 

That god-like grace of soul impart, 

Which makes a garden of each heart, 
Of every word it breathes, a flower. 


Some say that floods of glory dart 

In endless coarse from every star, 

Illuminating worlds afar, 
Else dark and oold*,^ — that such thou iart 

Bright river 1 whence thy primal spring t 

What shining orb first gave thee birth, 

And sent on wings of love to Earth 
This fragrance of God*t blossoming 9 

Thy source was one. When He, who dM 
That guilty man might ne'er become 

808 LIGHT. [Jnly, 

The teDaDt of a hopeless toml}, 
Had beckoned nearer to his side 

The feeblest of those shining ones 

Who sing His praise before the throne. 

He tore a jewel from his crown, 
And broke it into countless suns. 


The dazzling glory of the day — 

The gently twinkling eyes of night — 

The lily^s garb of spotless white— 
The rose that blushes at thy ray— 

The night lamp of yon church-yard mist, 

That dances with its flickering glare 

About the grave-stone of despair, 
And frights the ghastly exorcist, — 

That brightest pledge which Ood has given 
Of care for every erring child. 
The bow in which seven angels smiled. 

The wedding ring of Berth and Heaven — 

The radiance of the inner shrine, 

That gilds the holy cherubim. 

And shines on those that worship Him 
Between them shadowed ; — all are thine. 


Excluded from the tainted tomb 

Are all we love and all we fear ; 

Even thou ; for naked came we here, 
And naked seek its lampless gloom. 

O that thy vivifying breath 
Might reach th' unconscious, slumbering soul. 
And break the sullen grave's control, 

And conquer the destroyer. Death 1 

It shall be done. A power to save 
Will spring from thy pure Fount above. 
Its dungeon walls confine not Love, 

For there is Light beyond the grave. 

Who wins and wears that wreath of thee 
Which crowns the expiring martyr's head, 
Will leave entombed the ages dead, 

And grasp thine own eternity. c t. l. 

1852.] A WINTBX VlfilT TO TBB CATSKIUiS* 30t 

a tDtnttr iJtett to tift (ffatakUla. 

Strolling about the streets of HiKiscni, while waiting for the boat 
Rrhich was to take me to Catskill, one cold December day, I happened 
X) glance down the river, and beheld what at first seemed a high bank 
>f clouds. Something whispered that those were the Catskills. Every, 
ibre thrilled as I gazed again, and felt thiit those huge clouds were in- 
leed the " everlasting hills !" 

The sky had that dingy look which it often wears in winter, and I, 
Nho had never seen any mountains before, did not think at first that 
iiose misty piles in the distance could be mountains. Why, they seemed 
JO reach half way to the zenith ! I stood gazing at them for several 
ninutes, wrapt in silent admiration and wonder, until a cold gust ftom 
ixe river warned me to return to the comfortable stove at the hotel. 

Those then were the Catskills ! The mountain land of imagination — 
ihe last strong-hold of the Fairy folk — the enchanted regions where the 
charming superstitions of earlier years still linger, hid - in some shady 
glen at the foot of protecting mountains, undisturbed by .the ^sun of 
the 19th century !" The Catskills, peopled by the genius of an Irving— 
have they not a hold on the heart and imagination of each American 
reader? Well, there was an appropriateness in my first supposing them, 
to be clouds, for they are the veritable cloud-land. 

As I sat by the fire, memories of Rip Van Winkle and his long sleep, 
of the funny little men bowling at the foot of the mountain, and of the 
Kuany wild tales whose scenes are laid among those mysterious hilla^ 
passed through my mind, and I felt eager for the morrow to coine, when 
C should be among them. Yes, strange as it may seem at such a season, 
C was then "en route" for the Catskills. A dear friend of mine was. 
spending a year in the small village of H., which lies embosomed among 
them. Just before my winter vacation, I had received an urgent invittf- 
luon to visit him, and had now reached Hudson on my way. I bad 
Bvritten an interesting account, dear reader, of my ride to Hudson, espe- 
isially of the last sixteen miles, which were traveled by the gats, at the 
:^te of eight miles per hour — ^but want of space eompek me to omitit, 
X) your great loss I Towards evening I crossed the riv€ff to Catddll, and 
baving ascertained that H. was but twenty mSaa4]ftaiit|- and thata^nwil' 
iragon would cany me there, I retired to diewa of tttUiif dpm«.tika 
jay With XQJ ftknd. •.•...:;,. -: ; 

VOL. xvu. 40 

^10 ▲ wimft vnOT to thi catbulls. [Ju}yi 

The morning came, clear and bitter cold. After a substantial break- 
out, we started. I found that I was the only passenger — ^fortunately the 
driver was pleasant and communicative. The roads were good, and the 
horses in high spirits, and as we rattled out of the town, and flew by the 
pleasant looking farm-houses, I felt all the exhilaration which rapid mo- 
tion and the speedj prospect of meeting a dear friend, could give. As 
we approached the mountains, their appearance changed. They no lon- 
ger seemed like clouds, but like massive pyramids, piercing far above the 
clouds, and defying the storm and the lightning. Far up at our right, 
was the " Mountain House," resting upon an immense crag, and 0Te^ 
looking the river and the &r-extended country, like an eagle from his 
eyrie. Leaving that on the right, and going &rther south, we entered a 
gorge between the mountains, and commenced our ascent Now tofling 
op steep hills, hemmed in on either side by gigantic walls which shut out 
every thing except the strip of blue sky directly overhead — now winding 
around projecting rocks, or looking down steep precipices, over whidi 
every moment it seemed that we must be dashed — now descending a little, 
only to cHmb again still higher than before — slowly, very slowly, Irat 
surely we kept on our upward way. At times, the road seemed eat 
through the solid rock; at others, it was built on the trunks of huge trees 
directiy over the edge of precipices, over which it made one giddy to 
gaze. Far down, at the very foot of the mountain, we saw a littie stream 
which seemed filled with all the waywardness and wantonness which 
such a wild mountain life must needs give — ^now leaping down some lit* 
tie precipice, boiKng and gurgling and foaming from the &1I, it wonld 
dash away, tumbling over the stones which fill its bed, and laughing in 
its mad glee, till the rocks on either side gave back the e<^o, and the 
grim wood rang with its cheerful music — further on it flows very de- 
murely at the foot of some high gray rock, or beneath the gaunt branch* 
es of old hoary trees, whose tangled roots are laved by its refre^iing 
waters — ^now resting in the dense shade of overhanging pines, it mirron 
the clouds floating across the blue sky above, and seems to be piercing 
into the mysteri^ of the heavens. As some frolic girl, who ever surpri- 
se by new exhibitions of the exuberance of her sportive nature, with 
hw dear ringing laugh and merry glances fisdling everywhere, making 
gladness like the sunlight,-— sometimes is seen sobered, showing by (ihe 
quiet, earnest light dwelling in thoee deep blue eyes, that a soul k living 
under all this Aomghtlessness, and that the spirit which catdies and re- 
feM nHtf tOffdndnig object, alto mirrors in its depths the bhie of 
heaven ! I |elt a sympathy with this brook, for it seeid^Ae^oiily II^ 

1852.] A wimxB vmx to tbs cAtttauMm SIV 

ing thing there. The trees, stripped of their leaves^ stood like grim wesa^ 
tinels frozea to death upon the mountain's side — the pines scattered h«« 
and there, forming Uie only contrast to the otherwise pervading gray of 
rock and tree. 

At last, after toiling a long time, we reached the top of a very high 
hilly from which, winding far hack in the distance, we saw the road we 
had just ascended ; on one side, still farther below us than before^ the 
little brook still played around the foot of the mountain, which still tow- 
ered high above us ; for we seemed no nearer its summit than when we 
be^ran to ascend. Before us, nestled down at its very foot, were clustered 
three or four houses, to which the driver pointed, saying that there we 
should stop a while to rest the horses and warm ourselves. What I go 
down there, when the hills beyond seemed to be even higher than those 
we had already climbed ? Even so, and away we went down the hiUt 
rattling through the little street — ^thundering over the bridge^ and stop- 
ping at a little red Dutch tavern. Here, much to my satisftiction, we 
found a fire, on which the driver piled logs whose bright glow made the 
little bar-room seem really pleasant and comfortable. But soon I strolled 
out to see what kind of a place it was ; and found it as romantic and 
picturesque as it could be — at the foot of a very high mountain, with 
scarcely room for the road between the door and its steep rise, and the 
littie brook on the other side, and mountains all around. 

Here appeared one of the most beautiful phenomena I ever witnessed. 
The trees were cased in ice, the effect of a previous cold rain, and as the 
sun shone through them, the effect was magical ; every twig and bush 
stood out bright and dazzling ; it seemed like exquisite filagree work in 
silver I Often again during the day, I was charmed with the same vis- 
ion of beauty, as the hills intervened between us and the sun. I was 
quite vexed to find my free mountain brook here compelled to do the 
drudgery of a saw-mill; and as it lay above the bridge, dark, and sullen, 
and still, I could not recognize the clear, laughing stream which had been 
talking to me all the day, for the charm of fireedom was gone I On the 
other side of the mill, it went leaping and dashing away, shaking itself 
like a spirited horse when freed from the bit, then sweeping around som^ 
large rocks, plunged into the shade, as if it would hide after its disgrace* 

We soon commenced toiling up the hill again. Almost eveiy turn 
oxhibited some new featurei of wildn^ and beauty. To me eyetj 
thing was so strange and startling, that I cpuld do nothing but leak, 
rhe driver seemed to enjoy my evident jfeewMii in such scenes, and took 
grreat pleasure in pointing out every thing, of interest|-*-K»fteii atop^gto 

SL2 AmxMaBB^ rmn to ths catsksllr. [July, 

kt mavitwiii leknre Bome fioe bit of toenary. And then he had his 
kofrid nionmio tell at eveiy particularly dangerous place. Here a maa 
Ul orer, or there a team dashed down the mountain, and fed the crows. 
And one scene which he had witnessed himself — a loaded team backing 
<yver a precipice, and dragging down the driver, who was trying to stop 
them. As he described it, pointing out the very spot where it happened, 
I must confess it was rather startling; and when we whirled round some 
projecting rock, where the road made a sudden turn, and the wheeb 
would slide on the icy path almost to the edge of the hill, I felt some- 
what of curiosity to know how the story of our fate would read in the 
Best paper's paragraph of aoddents ! 

Blgh above us we saw occasionally frozen waterfalls pouring over rocks 
•mne twenty or thirty feet high. But they had been stayed by the hand 
ef Winter, and now were throwing back the rays of the mid-day sun. 
Seying how much I should like to see them in summer, with the green 
leaves contrasting with their foaming waters, I was surprised to learn that 
they were no waterfalls, but only small springs which would be unno- 
6ced in summer, but which, overflowing, had been gradually frozen, till 
&e ice had so &r accumulated as to give the appearance of cascades. 
' At length we reached the highest part of the road, three thousand 
iMt above the river. 

The driver pointed through the gorge to some hills, misty in the 
distance, and said that was Connecticut ! After this the road was less 
romantic and rather descending. About five o'clock we leached the 

village of H , stopping at the only tavern, which stood at one end of 

the little street. I lefl my valise and rode on to the Post OflSce to find 
the whereabouts of my fHend. A little street of small houses, separated 

from a high mountain by a small stream, constituted the village of H . 

At the other end of the street from the tavern stood the large bmldfngs 
ef the tannery^ which was the nucleus of the town; near this stood 
the Post Office, anS opposite it was The House of the place ; half way 
bcitween tavern and tannery stood the little church. I found my friend 
toployed as foreman in the tannery and living at his uncle^ in Ths 
House, Kecdving a hearty welcome from him for my own sake, and a 
eovdial greeUng from the family for his, I began to feel satisfied with 
myself and the world in general, and as we were all gathered around the 
table, the cheerful conversation, the smoking tea urn, the blazing fire, and 
the creature comforts before us, induced a happy state of body and miod. 
Ihat night we talked many hours, as only heart-friends after a long 
i^l)imti^ «ttfi tidk 1 The next day I was introduced to all the mysteries 

1852.] A wnnsK vibit to thb CAnxiLUs. 313 

of the tannery — the sweat pit, the drying lofib, the bark mill, the vats, 
and the mammoth trip hammers, that all the day long lift their ponder- 
ous heads with monotonous regularity ; all were visited, and for the first 
time, I had a somewhat clear idea of the manner in which flesh is 
made sole. 

My friend had one &ir cousin, the light of the house, whose presence 
served to relieve the monotony of an otherwise dreary wint^, for there 
was no society there. Books, too, were not wanting, and I found refine- 
ment and education not incompatible with ^'A home in the woods." 
Here, for the first time, was I introduced to that great work, of England's 
greatest living poet — ^^ In Memoriam." And as I listened to the moumfiil 
eloquence of his sad story, I felt that poet needed no better interpreter 
than a true-hearted woman I And often since, when my spirit has been 
soothed by the mournful melody of that touching tribute to friendship^ 
my thoughts have gone back to the time when first I heard those words^ 
and sweet remembered tones have thrilled a chord of memory's lyre. 

The next day was Sunday, and in the morning we attended churdi. 
A stranger in the Colonel's pew at that season was of course an objeet of 
intwest I tried to support my position with dignity and grace, but iwt 
a modest young man like myself to be made the mark for all the eye* of 
a congregation, was indeed trying. 

At the usual time the minister read the hymn. I had just settled 
myself in my seat to enjoy it comfortably, when I became aware, by the 
rustling around me, that the congregation were rising ; hastily jumping 
up I *^ faced the music" and waited in silent expectation ; ranged in a 
double row on one side of the gallery were a number of ahock-keaded 
men ; on the other, were an equal number of the gentler s^ ; in the 
center, armed with an enormous tuning fork, stood the lecuier — ^he was a 
singular looking man, tall, gaunt, and with a nose of Brodignagnian pro- 
portions. Behind him was the instrumental music, a violin and base viol. 
Striking the tuning-fork he applied it to his ear ; then holding the wide- 
extended singing book in the other hand, he commenced. How shall I 
describe the sound that followed ? Rising far above the gruff bass of the 
male portion, or the sweet tenor of the ladies, rang the clarion notes of 
the leader ! Louder and still louder sang the choir, but still high above 
them all were heard his trumpet tones. What should / do, — ^I was 
banning to suffocate, — laugh I must, but h<m^ where / My first impulse 
was to make for the door — but that was impossible. I caught the eye 
of one female, who stood next the leader, gazing intently on me, stretch* 
ing her skinny mouth to its utmost limit She fixed her eyes upon 

314 A wnrmt voeot to ths cATSxnxfiu V^^^ 

me — ^I bit my lips till I thought the blood would betray me. Will they 
neifer stop ? — ^ Still poured the full tide of soDg P* At this moment I 
saw one or two younger singers glancing under the edge of their bonnets 
at the stranger — ^happy sight I I lost the full sense of the leader^ voice 
and was enabled to restrain myself through the whole seven yerses. 

The next day my friend took me some miles below to see a singular 
gorge between the mountains, called the Olore ; it seemed as if some 
giant had rent the hill asunder. A httle brook runs through it, and 
recently a road has been constructed along its bank. On either side the 
mountain rises perpendicularly to an immense height, so high indeed 
that — as it was snowing a little — I could scarcely see the summit. Hem^ 
locks and pines line the sides of the mountains ; the sun never penetrates 
some parts of the Clove, and the snow has been found there in mid-sum^ 
mer. I felt a sense of oppression as I stood looking at those mighty 
walls — they seemed about to crush me I Indeed, though nothing is more- 
exhilarating than to climb lofty mountains, to breathe the pure air, and_ 
gaze upon the wide expanding scene, yet I question whether it is well 
always to live among the mountains, or at least at the foot of them— 
Hemmed in from all the outward world, it would seem that the soul 
must become narrow and contracted, seeing nothing beyond the sl<^>6S 
and ridges of its own neighborhood — gazing only upon a nairow strip 
dky — it knows nothing of the boundless heavens stretching everywhere 
around us ; of the wide-rolling rivers, the far-extended plains, and the 
mighty, ever-moving, yet changeless Ocean. 

Rather would I live upon some of the boundless prairies of our west- 
ern land, where the eye gazing far in the distance, scarcely distinguishes 
its earthly home from its hoped for heaven. The wavmg grass undulates 
in the breezes, spangled with gay, colored flowers— earth^s stan. ^e 
.shadows of the shifting clouds roam across the plain ; the seasons come 
and go, bringing endless variety ; and all nature rejoices in the 
boundless sunshine and the free air. And at night, when the mighty 
constellations come out in the heavens, sweeping in their eternal circles, 
nau^t impedes the gazer^s eye, — ^but he watches the wond^^l 
machinery of the heavens, and listens to the eloquent story of Greaticm, 
which the burning stars hymn, moving in their nightly march. How the 
mind wanders! — ^from mountain gorges to far-stretching prairies! It 
snowed violently before we reached home, but once by the cheerful fire- 
aide we cared not for the howling storm. The mommg came bright and 
cold, and brought with it the hour of my departure. It was a sorrowfol 
cue for me, for three days had taught me to love all the family, and as I 


' . ., .1 . 

heard their heartfelt ^^good bye," and cordial invitatioii toretam again, 
I Mt as if I was leaving home. My friend, on bidding me farewell, 
threw a thick cloak over my shoulders, and though I thongbt it needless 
at the time, I had reason to be grateful for his thoughtfulness long before 
we had crossed the mountains. The ride was a very tedious one ; the 
snow flew so that it was almost impossible to see anything; however, when 
under some hill it was comparatively calm — the effect was very fine. 
The snow seemed like a protecting mantle which some kind spirit had 
cast over the naked mountains ; drifted by the wind it assumed most 
fimtastic shapes, now piled high over some projecting rock it hung peer- 
ing down the chasm below, like the ghost of some miserable suicide con- 
demned to guard the cliff from which he made that last, terrible ^^ leap 
in the dark!" Falling on every old tree it clung to each branch and 
twig, and seemed like the soft cheek of youth, pressed dose to the 
wrinkled brow of age. Wreathing the bold foreheads of the bald rocks, 
resting on the tibick hemlocks as if to give better effect to their leaves of 
glossy green ; far down in the valley, high up on the mountain, the snow 
rested everywhere like the lights embracing and beautifying all things. 

The stars had come out and the cold grown more intense when we 
altered Oatskill, and the red-hot stove in mine host's bar room was hail- 
ed as a friend. 

I intended to cross the Hudson in the morning and return home by 
Ihe cars, but learned that the ice had closed the river so that it was im- 
possible to cross, and also that the last boat of the season for New York 
would leave that night at ten o'clock. We went then to the dock and 
waited there in a little bar room till two o'clock, A. M., which was the 
lime the boat finally started. 

I felt no inclination to sleep, and going to the furnace room sat by the 
open window watching the scene. All around us was a vast field of ice, 
through which the Steamer was striving to force her way. High above 
lis towered the Catskills in their gloomy grandeur; above them the 
quiet moon looked down upon the scene, while over all was stretched the 
dark blue of the infinite heaven, through which the stars seemed to bum 
with intenser glow as the night grew colder. 

I could not withdraw my gaze from the mountain wedging the sky 
with its dark ebon mass, and I sat there leaning upon my hands, gazing 
at it in silence as the hours flew bv. 

There it stood — so calm, so still, so majestic ! — ^pointing to the hiero- 
glyphics of the Heavens, reposing in the calm serenity of knowledge, 
communing with his mighty heart. Careless of the storms which wasted 


their fiiiy upon its granite cliffs, or the changes of life» which passing 
left it still the aanu I While at its feet, the little steamer toiled, and 
struggled, and contended with her stem foe ; battling with all the ener- 
gies of life, 9!aA forcing her waj through the almost impassable barrier. 
There was no one near me except the swarthy firemen, who kept piling the 
fuel into the glowing furnaces. Everything was strange and exciting, 
the ice crashed under us as at each revolution of the wheels the Steamer 
dashed against it, till sometimes the whole vessel shooV. Sometimes 
unable to proceed we would go back, and then with new vigor return 
to the attack; in our wake was a string of Barges heavily loaded. We 
seemed like a forlorn hope contending with an overwhelming force. 
Hie crashing of the ice, the play of the machinery, and the loud com* 
mands of the pilot, broke upon the stillness of the night, but yet they 
came with such monotonous regularity that I ceased to notice them, and 
continued to gaze at the moimtain undisturbed, till the scene sunk deep 
into my heart, and bore with it impressive lessons. The gray of the 
early dawn was creeping over the western sky when I went bdow. 

Towards the next evening we reached the ffighlands / — ^And as those 
majestic clifi& came in sight I hailed them with joy, for I had so often 
heard of them that they seemed like friends. As we came up to those 
grim walls of stone they seemed to frown at us for our presumption, but 
as they gradually fell back in the distance they assumed a milder aspect. 
I went to the stem of the boat and watched them as we passed, changing 
their hue from gray to dark blue, then growing lighter and lighter, till 
finally, in the distance, they seemed but clouds. As we proceeded, the 
bold outline of some near cliff would shut out those that had past, and 
gradually receding would itself be lost to view. I watched them, halF* 
dreaming, as they glided by us, like the actions of our lives : first, filling- 
all our thoughts, and then gradually slipping, ghost-like, into the past 1 

I. s. el 


mi^morabUta Daitnsta. 

In things preeminentlj notable our last If umber reveled. Stich % vfntfeU dlf ITkle 
news occurs but once in our Editorial life-time, and sorrj are we that, the glorious 
chance afforded to veil our sins, by presenting a vast array of College asperai^wiUi 
their names in print, thereby interesting themselves, and their frjends, is given ooly 
to the first editorial effort of a Class. There is, indeed, but one, thing left ta the 
present Number, but who will not read a short notice and catalogue, of . 

THE YALE NAVY? -^ 1 :v ■ d-.f 

To see the boats of our different Classes dressed fbr a holiday, and manned by 
crews in neat distinctive uniforms, shooting the bridge at ** Riker's," or buffeting the 
waves off Fort Hale, is as pleasing a sight as any the College affords. Some of the 
crews go through their exercises with a precision whidi, to such a decided landsman 
as oarself, savors almost of the marvelous. True, when on^ meets the same fel- 
lows left by the falling tide on some bar up the river, and striving with their might 
to get clear, there seems hard labor demanded ; but considering the interest mani- 
fested by the dwellers at Fair Haven who, on these occasions, invariably congregate 
on the banks to bellow good advice, and the physical training which must follow, we 
cannot help considering the labor well repaid. No matter what may be .the ppin- 
ioD generally of our delectable Anglo-American, Mr. Charles Astor Bristed, he »t lef^t 
speaks to the point on this subject. In his description of a Cambridge bpatrace, his 
^tistics of the comparative health in English and American Universities, are any- 
thing but flattering to the latter. He proves that the former send out an infinitely 
^tter set of broad chests and compact muscles, as well as at least an equal number 
^f scholarly minds. He also proves that the best physical training is not at variance 
"^ith the best scholarship. He also proves that boating.has had perhaps the greatest 
^liare in this glorious result So much for navigation in the abstract. Here you have 
the Catalogue for 1862. 

The Shawmut^ eight oars, built at Boston in 1842, now owned in Class of 185S. 
Flagtt for bow, red, with white '* S ;" for stem, American Ensign. 
Idghtf Red. 

Uniform, red shirts with white fSacings, with *' 53" and letter " S" on the breast; 
pantaloons white. 

R. Waite, Captain, A. F. Heard, 

J. Hamilton, i/ato, T. M.Jack, 

J. W. Blachley, Purser, J. A. W. Jones, 

W. T. Baxter, A. E. Kent, 

H. R. Bond, K^, 

A. C. Dulles, J. MoOmmiole, Jr., 

J. S. French, J. Olds, 

R. L. Gibson, A. E. Skelding,' 

J. H. Gillespie, J. G. Thbmas, 

J. R. Goodrich, J. Warren, 

E. Harland, W. R. Webb, 

W. L. Hmman, R. Young. ' 

VOL. xvn, 41 




The Excelsior, six oan, owned in Glass of 1858. Built by Brooks^ New Hayen 
FlagSj Tricolor, with ** £" inscribed, and Amerioto KbsigiL 
Uniform^ bine shirts, white facings ; letter ** £" on breast. 
Grew Aoi reported. 

TbetTodiDe, eight oars, owned in Class of 1863. Built in 1862 by Brooks £ 

Flagt, fbr bow, blue, with "TT' inscribed ; for stem, American Ensign. 

ZighUf larboard bow, blue ; starboard, red 

Uniform, white shirts with blue facings, letter " XT" and " 68" on breast; belt, 
Uack; pantaloons, white. 

J. Oatlio, Jr., Captain, 
£. Walden, 1«^. LUuL, 
G. W.Smalle7,2d da 
B. K. Fhelpi^ Pur$ir, 
RF. Baer, 
D. B^Empaon, 
y. W. Follows^ 
D. ▲.Goddard, 
W. M.HiidM», 

a W. Knevals, 
T. P. Nicholas, 
E. W. Seymour, 
Gea Shiras, 
S. H. Tobey, 
C. Towneend, 
T. Weston, 
A. D. White. 
JM. Whiton. 

the Halcyon, eight oars, bnflt at Boston m 1860, and'purchased of a Cambndge 
Olub by Students m Yale Class of 1864. 
I^iaff$, at bow, red, with gilt name; at stem, American Ensign. 
Uf^ornif blue shirts with *' H** on breast and white pantaloons. 

F. H. Slade, Captain, 

J. C. Parsons, 

A. H. Stevens, Lieut, 

W. R. Plunkett, 

A. Van Sinderen, Purur, 

W. S. Potts, 

J. S. Barkalow, 

G. W.Reily, 

J. Brownson, 

E. Russell, 

T. Egleston, 

J. F. Sciler, 


W. S.Shurtleff, 

A. H. Gnnn, 

J. Sims, 

G. D. F. Lord, 

L. L. Weld, 

W.S. Maples, 

C. A. White. 

C. Pardee, 

The Atalanta, six oaiB, built at New York, 1851, now owned in Class of 1855. 
Uniform, blue shirts with white facings, and letter "A** on breast 

N. W. Bumstead, Captain, 

D. L. HuntiogtoD, \H Lieut. 
J. A. Gjangdf, %d Lieut^ 

G. A. Eittredge, Purser, 
W. H. L. Barnes, Clerk, 
C. G. Child, 

E. Coming, 
M. B. Ewing, 

A. R Fitch, 
A. MgD. Lyon, 
W. L. Morris, 
R S. NeU, 
A. P. Rockwell, 
F. A. Seely, 
T. S. Strang, 
W. C. Whittemore, 



«lritor'0 table. 

a Readeb: — The die is cast, the Rubicon must be crossed, another number 
beautiful Maga. must be sent forth alone into " the wide, wide world." And 
siness now is to write for it a letter of introduction to thyself; "who art a part, 
3 trust no small part, of that world. We request for it thj protection from 
assault, and desire that if possible thou wilt give . it emplpfment in some 
D where it can be useful to thee. And, finally, any favom which thou mayest 
upon it will be gratefully acknowledged by ourself. That is, if we ever 
be able to acknowledge anything again. For a strange erent has happened 
md we fear for — for Maga.— <for ourselves — for all the world and its contents. 
ire cozily dreaming — on the ides of Jane— ^ our pyramidal, monumental and 
unlike honor, in being in the state of having been chosen to be about to be- 
n £(^itor, when a sudden and fearful *' change came over iht spirit of our 
" But the moral of the apparition we hava since (in . a toiikuisf state) 
tted to embody in the folloiving 

. . ■ I 


The all embracing sea, so calm and d«ep 
In blooming summer's sunshine hours of resi^ 

Its rippling waves seem dreaming, as they sleep 
Subdued, upon her softly throbbing breast ; 

And those whom evening's gentle breath beguiles 

Look up to Heaven with " many-twinkEng amilea.'^ ' 

Roused by the startled storm Qod*s angry cry; 

Lashed to the strife by Tempest's raging blast. 
With lightning wreathed, they climb the blackened sky, 

And roll in foam athwart the boiliDg Witdtti ; -^ ' " 
While Heaven's artillery, battling high and loud, - - ' 
In thunder echoes from each passing clotid. 

/ ( . 


A pale, cold midnight in a forest glade ; 

Majestic oaks, with Solemn stillness crowttecl, ' 
And pendant icicles, whose light is made 

01 frozen moonbeamSf guard it; while aroiind^ 
Clad in her maiden garb of spotless white, 

Reposes Silence on the breast of Night. 

. ■ 

But sleeps in death, as now arrayed for war, 

The legions of the doud-king sweep aloog; 
The forest giants bend beneath hif oar, 

w t ^H*'**/! * 


#3^ tbnOlCB TABLX. [Julj 

That rolls in wrath their rattling spires among ; — 
A child of darkness, whose appallilkg form 
Broods o'er the Earth, and cries the approaching storm. 



• . .i ■ 

A erowded city, with its bustling mart, 
Whose wharres are piled with merchandise nntold ; 

Whcore tbonghts of trajfU rise in every heart, 
And erery eye keeps restless watch for gold. 

When mind is sallow like the miser's cheek, 
• i ' Andhfuman souls with yellow lustre reek. 

But hariLl A breatli, as from the voiceless dead, 
I ■ Oreepa through each qmyering nerve, each shrinking brain ; 

li. . ■ i. ^' UiaseeD the douds of pestilence o'erspread 
The busy sea of men ; and e'er again 
The solemn bell above one coffin tolls, 
Their floods of death have quenched a thousand souls. 


Bright Erin ; home of Cupid and the flowers. 

Sits robed in beauty, on her emerald throne, 
And plenty smiles amid her moonlight bowers, 

Whose joyous revelers wake grief alone ; 
While sweetly Day, escaped the world's alarms, 
Rests, veiled with blushes, in the Sun-god's arms. 

For one fleet month mad Merriment holds sway ;] 
Then, sudden as a summer's storm, appearing, 

Staads stem Starvation staring at his prey. 
Then, wildly on his death-shod steel careering, 

Trampl^ alike the strong, the brave, the fair, 

And leaves a broken remnant to despair. 


Thus we have seen Old Yale, our Alma Mater, 
Enthroned beneath her canopy of green ; 

Her soas eodeav'rtng to accommodate her 
With Editors of this, our Magazine. 

When chosen, how with joy they almost wept! 

And then how gratefully they all accept ! 

One long, loi^ year has slowly oozed away 

In minutes, se^^^ii^ dny^, of thankless toil ; 
Tlieir lait proof-iheet become the printer's prey ;- 

1852.] EDITOR^S TABLE. 321 

And now huge bills, from which their hearts recoil. 
Arise to hail the approaching July Kalends, 
When they must cast that awkward little balance, 


The moral upshot of this wondrous dream 

Is simply — ** All that glitters is not gold ;'* 
Or, if you like, " Things are not what they seem.'* 

Who trusts fair faces will be often <o/<(, 
For nearly all exteriors are spurious. — 
But since our printer, who has tried to hurry us. 
So long, in vain, is growing rather furious, 
We leave these new discov'ries with the curious. 

Yes, the profits of Maga., like the prophets of the world, are generally veritable 
children of Humbug 1 But, as yet, these visions belong rather to our predecessors, 
yrho have recently been appointed members of that diploma-iic corps which old 
Tale annually sends to Court — the world's favor. And now having given a sketch 
of the editorial dream — which you should regard as a rare gem, since sleeping is a 
luxury scarcely known to Editors — you will of course expect an account of the 
Editorial posture, usually so prominent in (upon, under, or around) the Table. 
Well, we are at ouf post, sitting bolt upright in an uneasy pseudo-rocking chair, 
which is firm and inflexible as a rock ; or as our cAazVitable Puritan ancestors, one of 
whom was probably its manufacturer. It was once painted red, like a cherry ; but 
is now covered with scratches, (John Gilpin had but one I) which might be mistaken 
for the down on a cherub's wing. At any rate, the chair is old, and why should it 
not be o-pinion-ated ? * Although it would craze us to sit in it much longer, it is 
doubtless more comfortable than the golden throne of Crcesits. And it requests a 
c?i-eering reminiscence of our childhood, when we saw the picture of a Chinese 
king, a man of oilcloth skin, catgut nerve, and intense general appearance, seated 
in its counterpart Is it not success enough in life for one to be a king's successor, 
especially if he can out-shine his Chinese ante-sedent ? A resolution of the Board, 
passed at their last meeting, has just been presented to the present Editor, who was 
not present on that interesting occasion. 

* ' Resolved, That all puns shall be permanently laid on the Editors' Table, and 
excluded from the Editor's Table." 

The vote upon it was as follows : — Yea, our honest Editor, our ** Grand, gloomy 
and peculiar" Editor, and our lazy Editor. Nay, our facetious Editor ; who, after 
having pundered it a long while, said that he could not see the punctum of the 
Resolution. This, it will be observed, was probably owing to some difficulty in the 
punctuation. The weather is oppressive ; some, and a friend at our elbow is dread- 
ing an oppressive summer. We "^ish we were in a well — but perhaps our condi- 
tion would be still more />i^iable. Neptune, shake thy dripping Jocks over us, until 
Hecate's cold serene smile take the place of Apollo's withering glance ! We are 
off to the Harbor. 




322 editor's tabls. [JTvly 

— The world is full of improper applications; in ftust, of improprieties in e^eiy 
thing. ** Absence of mind** is a prevalent trait, from the subscriber who read^ the 
magazine and forgets to pay for it^ to the Editor who lights his cigar with a pz'^wf- 
sheet, and sends rejected articles to the printer. But of all perversions of tbft:sDg8 j 
from their original purpose, the worst is that of which we have been accused. ^ 
glance at our title will remind you that this is an Editor's table. Now we, I e« ^^ 
Editors of Maga. for many years past, are said to have abused thifl title, ^^^ 
" turned the tables" from their prime object, which was to serve as a sup-^ri for ^^ 
several courses of thought, with which its readers may be entertained. For it ^^ 
frequently been used to spread before the public a " feast of reason and floy^^ ^^ \^\ 
soul" actually amounting to intellectual dissipation. If this charge be well fo»^^^' 
ed, you cannot think it strange that, in attempting to proceed to business, we ^^''^^ 
ourselves in a great dessert-'-orr ather dearth, of contributions, correspondents, ^c^* 
They are few, and generally useless. College seems blind to its duty of supper ^' 
ing us in our laudable efforts for Maga.'s prosperity. Month after month we ^^^'* 
** Awake, arise, or be forever fallen 1" and month after month the edio — fore^^'®* 
fallen — comes back to ns. But we must stop preaching. Our thanks are due ^^ 
each of the few who have permitted their warm hearts to thaw the icy hoods ^^ 
custom, and have written for us. 

To the author of "A Winter Visit to the Oatskills.'' We shall be glad to 
from him again. 

To the author of " Lines to Marie Antoinette**-— which, like flogging in the na' 
are under consideration. 

To the author of *' A smile ;** which, however, is hardly bright enough to be vi 
attractive. Try again, with more spirit, and more self-reliance. 

To the author of the " Biennial" verses — ^whether intended as an epic, a 
song, or a tragedy, we know not. Your versification differs from your puns, in 
ing original ; and your hand-writing from both, in being tolerably good. Yon 

We call your attention, dear readers, to our last page — the "Notice to Ckmtribic:^^*' 
tors." One object in establishing this premium was, to fill the pages of the m 
zine with articles worthy of its Alma Mater. We trust that you will each and al' 
make a great effort, and send us contributions, which will, at leasts be usefuL 
cess to you all 

Don't omit to read the Clark and Townsend prize pieces in this number. The^ 
will all amply repay perusal. 

The nintii and last number of this volume will be issued as soon as poasiUe^-i 
fore Commencement Communications intended for it must be sent in immediatel; 


We have received the April number of the " Stylus,'* published at Bethany 
lege, Virginia — the April, May and June numbers of the '* Randolph Macoo 
zine** — the June number of the "North Carolina* University Magazine'* — the "ITi 
aaa LiterBry** for June — and the '* Knickerbocker" for May, JtoM and July. 


2.] editor's table. 323 

ir thanks are due to the Hon. James Brooks, of New York» for a copy of bis 
3b in the House of Representatives, on the 15th ult. 

e are also indebted to Robert E. Peterson & Co., of Philadelphia, the Publish- 
Tor the first number of " The National Portrait Gallery of Distinguished Amer- 
w" It contains portraits of General and Mrs. Washington ; the former taken 
an original by Colonel Trumbull, belonging to Tale College. 
Fhe Genius of Youth ;" (previously abundant with the Editorial board ;) " The 
cal Review," and " Norton's Literary Gazette," have also been received, 
•me fellow, who never had mind enough to go mad himself, has sent us a Re- 
ef the Officers of the Retreat for the Insane, at Hartford, Conn. I But per- 
he was right. If we continue to be hurried as we have been for a week or 
we will inquire more particularly about this '* Retreat." 


The Premium for English Composition, established in 185(^ 
and placed at the disposal of the Editors of the Yale Literary 
Magazine, is again open for competition. It is a gold medal, 
of the value of twenty-five dollars, to be awarded for the best 
prose article, not exceeding eight pages of the Magazine in 
length, and written by an undergraduate of this College, that 
shall be offered for publication on or before the fifth Wednesday 
of the first term of the collegiate year. There shall be no re- 
striction as to subject, any farther than the known character of 
the Magazine requires. The essays sent in for competition 
must be signed with assumed names, and accompanied with 
sealed letters containing the true names of the authors ; which, 
except in the case of the successful competitor, shall be re- 
turned to the Post Ofiice unopened, and inscribed with the as- 
sumed names. The prize shall be adjudged by an examining 
committee, to consist, always, of the chairman of the board of 
Editors, and two resident graduates appointed by the Editors. 
Should none of the essays be deemed worthy of the prize, the 
Editors shall have the power to withhold it, for the time being. 

Chairman of the Board of Editors. 
July 16th, 1852. 



Vol.. XVII. AUGUST, 1852. No. IX. 

®tir donfesHtonal. 

Comb into tlie confessional, dear reader, and shrive us. We have no 
sfarong-armed, stout-fisted leader for you to-day, and you must play the 
piiesty and absolve us. If^ after hearing our recital, you can demand ar- 
gnmentative or logical articles in July, why, we will cry, " Peccavimus." 
But come into the confessional. 

Imprimis. We confess to a delight in trifles. We love the little 
things that fill up the interstices between the great objects which attract 
ihe world's attention. We do not like our mind to be taken up by mas- 
•ire pillars, or crowded with heavy folios, either of Divinity, Law, or 
Medicine. It is the weakness of our mental digestion, that makes us re- 
ject the strong meats that distend the stomachs of the numerous intel- 
lectual Polyphemuses. We like the nick-nacks, the delicacies, the entre- 
mets of the great feast spread before us all. We infinitely prefer to 
stand outside the arena, and look at l^e combat, while more active minds 
xaiBe the dust within. We like to find out little comers in the old hou- 
ses that our fathers have built for us, to explore the old passages, and pull 
orer the rubbish that years have accumulated. We don't like the con- 
ihsion of building, nor the stifihess of the new furniture. Our steps in 
the library tend to the shelves where repose the old (or the new) authors 
who have used their pen in joyous yet instructive gayety, instead of ex- 
hausting themselves, and astounding others by great wind-mill blows and 
Quixotic attacks on some hypothetical castle. We love to linger with 
Jacques in the wood of Arden, picking wisdom from the fool's conceits. 
Hamlet is almost beyond our depth. The purpose of Richard III, is too 
wily, the cunning of lago too guileful to interest us. We like our vil- 

VOL. xvn. 42 


lany in smaller doses. Commend us to no greater rogue than Autoly- 
cus. The larger potion rather nauseates than works healthily in the sys- 
tem. We cannot aspire to metaphysics. Our poor wit is too shallow to 
contain admiration for the incomprehensible. One of Elia's qnaintnesses 
is more alluring to us than a volume of Kant, and we prefer a single 
page of rare old Ben to a canto of the unreadable, unapproachable, mys- 
tically sublime Shelley. 

Not that we object to dreaming. We cannot deny the soft impeadi- 
ment of being ourself a dreamer. We must e'en admit, sub rosa, the 
having whilom feloniously sequestered and devoured a mince pie, before 
retiring, to titillate our slumbers with these airy visitants. That was in 
our childhood. We have grown wiser, we hope. We prefer day-dream- 
ing, now. Reveries we particularly affect. There is a charm for us in 
lying under a tree in a pleasant June afternoon, watching the blue smoke 
as it curls from the end of our cigar. It is pleasant to let our fancy 
shape the clouds into figures strange and wild, as they drift through the 
little scrap of blue sky that the interlacing boughs have spared us. It 
is vastly more agreeable to while away the evening with a pleasant com- 
panion, chatting of little things, recalling old passages of some &vorite 
author, and turning one another's attention to this or that quaint trifle in 
the present or the past, than to spend it in mastering some abstruse sd- 
ence, or exploring the hidden principles of some vast organization. 

We have no particular devotion to Science. We had rather weave 
our own pleasing fancies and half conceived theories, the more charming 
to us from their very absurdity, than discourse learnedly of parallax and 
penumbra, or argue closely upon formations, strata or eclipses. These 
are useful things, we admit, but they do not interest us. Had we been 
Sir Isaac Newton, we should have munched the apple, and counted the 
seeds. We might even have thrown the paring over our head, to see 
the first letter of our lady-love's name, (though we know that aheady,) 
but the law of gravitation would never have struck us, or, if it had, we 
might have dismissed it as something not worth the thinking on. 

We aspire to no great political knowledge. We have very vague 
ideas on the subject of a tarifi", and had supposed till recently that sheny 
cobblers came under the head of Internal Improvements. We are con- 
servative in our tastes. Change is no improvement, except in the signifi- 
cation of the trades-people. Novelty has no great charms for us, except 
it be in literature. 

But we must mention our dislikes, for like a good CathoHc,. we will 
make a dean breast of it 

1852.] SONQ or the sailor. 827 

Our antipathies we can rarely account for. There are various people 
who ^ rasp against our nature," without having any one characteristic to 
which we can point as the offending. We dislike pretension. Nothing 
is more ludicrous than attemptings for an American aristocracy. It bears 
the mark of the mint on it altogether too freshly. Vulgarity is not im- 
proved by gilding. We have no worshipful affection for a rich fooL 
There is a quotation of some old author, dashing through our brain, 
dodging into all the comers, eluding every attempt to capture it, to the 
effect that " Pride is a high horse, that carries us safely over dirty places, 
but Vanity is a stumbling jade, that leaves us in the mire." So we think. 
I^ompous charity is more disgusting than avowed selfishness. Sounding 
legacies, magnificent bequests, argue to our mind no self-sacrificing be- 
H^evolence. The gift is easy of that for which we have no further occa- 
sion. We dislike bigotry and moroseness equally, and think no better 
of a raven because his coat is black. Hypocrisy — but soft, whispers 
I^dence — ^your antipathies may offend. The ran m shaft strikes often 
unexpectedly, and it may return to the archer. So, a truce to the shrift. 
A.nd if the arrow has pierced your jerkin, my master, why, wear motley, 
like ourselfl It's an excellent buckler. p. 

0ongoftl)e 0ailor. 

Oh gire to me the bounding 8e&, 

And a good ship tight and trim, 
A bold, brave crew of sailors true 

And o'er the waves we'll skim. 
Torrents may pour, the tempest roar, 

The stout mast bend to the gale, 
The sailor's heart will never starts 

Nor in the fierce storm quaiL 
The winds may sweep o'er the mighty deep, 

And the waves run mountain high, 
Like panting steeds the swifter speeds 

Our bark till the blast goes by. 
Then hoist the sail to the softened gale^ 

And away with our lightsome crafty 
The broad blue sea for a home seek we^ 

And the shore leave far abaft 


Oa every Btrand of every land 

Shall our roving footetepe be, 
And our beaked prow the waters plow, 

Till our sails dot every sea. 
From the balmy isles, where Nature smiles 

With one eternal Spring, 
Where the Zephyr breeze of southern seas 

Is ever loitering. 
To the blasts that roll from the Arctic pole, 

0*er a drear and frozen main ; 
Where the grim white bear from his ice-ribbed lair, 

Looks down o'er a sunless plain ; 
From the flashing east, with its gorgeous feast 

Of splendor and of wealth, 
Where the palm-trees grow by the Gkmges* flow. 

And the crystal pearl in stealth 
Beneath the waves, in coral caves. 

Is sparkling all unseen ; 
Where the diamond shines in priceless mines^ 

Where Bengal's fields are green ; 
To the far ofif west, where the snowy crest 

Of the broad Pacific's surge 
With ceaseless roar beats on the shore 

Of Utah's farthest veiige. 
Where through the strait of the Golden Gate, 

The Sacramento's tide, 
Tlie precious sand of its shining strand 

Is sowing fax and wide. 
Or anon we plow our beaked prow, 

A stout and merry crew. 
Till the cli£b of Spain that guard the main 

Break forth upon our view. 
By the frowning fort and the busy port. 

By the vine-clad hills of France, 
By the classic shores where the Tiber pours 

His yellow floods, we glance ; 
Where ^tna shrouds in the misty clouds 

Her dim volcanic fires. 
And with a frown looks grimly down 

On^Naples' fairy spires ; 
Where the forests lave the Aegean wave. 

As they did in days of yore. 
When Homer sang with a seraph tongue 

On Ohio's rocky shore ; 


To the Golden Horn, where the ruddy morn 

On mosque and minaret 
You may behold, like a seal of gold, 

Her royal signet set ; 
Where the crescent floats o'er the battled moats 

That guard the inland sea, 
And the Russian's way to his eastern prey 

Cuts off like a magic key. 
Or anon we glide by the giant side 

Of some old and hoary pile, 
Which huge and strong hath guarded long 

The Portals of the Nile. 
Thus glide we o*er from shore to shore 

Each broad and billowy sea, 
No heart so light, no hopes so bright 

As the sailor's are to me ; 
And when at last, life s voyage past, 

We reef our mortal sails, 
Then may we reach that glorious beach 

Where blow no stormy gales. 
And when we die then may we lie 

Full many a fathom deep. 
Where the sea we love, still rolls above 

Its chant to our wakeless sleep. l. d. b. 


^l)t illoral <£ltmmt in Srue (&xtatnt8fSf. 


my reasons it is hard to tell precisely what true Greatness is. 
is always relative, generally indefinite, often misunderstood, and 
wantonly perverted. Mathematically speaking, it is a variable 
he value of which is determined in any particular case, by the 
jrms with which it is connected. 

to human character, it has a meaning more obscure, uncer- 
nvolved than when applied to any portion of the world of mafc- 
udying minerals, for example, you find an acknowledged scale, 
to which, by calling diamonds ten, sapphires nine, the topax 


eight, and so on down to two and one, you can detennine the propo^ 
tional hardness of every stone, and state its numerical rank. But it is 
not so with men. You have here no definite starting point Tou can ' 
neither decide upon the rotten stone, from which to work up, nor find 
the diamond from which to work down ; and if you should arrange a 
scale to suit your own ideas, and try to give men ranks accordingly, yoor 
neighbor will attack your premises, or leave them in disgust. 

External circumstances, the age, the country, the station in which men 
happen to be placed, have ofben exalted the worthless, and kept out d 
sight the great Men have received titles and homage from the world, 
much more for what they have seemed than for what they have done; 
and more for what they have done than for what they have been. It is 
not more trite than true, that circumstances alter cases. But it is wrong 
to judge of men from their external circumstances alone. Gulliver is a 
man at home, a giant at Lilliput, and a dwarf at Brobdignag. A can- 
dle set upon a candlestick giveth light to all the house, but hid beneath 
a bushel, is not known to be on fire. 

But while these facts should make us cautious as to the grounds on 
which we draw distinctions between the little and the great, they need 
not deter us from believing that some men would be great under any 
circumstances. Greatness is no chimera. There are those who, in any 
age or clime, would show themselves superior. Crush them, and with 
elastic force, back they will spring to their natural forms. All must ad- 
mit that there have lived men, lofty in thoughts, eloquent in worda, and 
noble in works, who well deserve the homage of mankind. 

Moreover, however much a disappointed man may sneer at the folly of 
wishing to be great, and may picture to the young the constant cares 
and dread responsibilities which rob the lives of great men of their pleas- 
ure ; however much the moralist may question whether ambition be a 
•virtue or a vice, — ^there lurks in many a young man's heart a feeling, ac- 
quired by no precept, imbibed from no book, but rising spontaneously 
within his breast, "It is my duty to be great" It attends him like a 
faithful Mentor, whispering in his ear by night, dreams of his future em- 
inence, and in the morning inciting him to renewed and earnest action. 

It is as natural for mind as for matter to expand. The acorn is not 
more true to nature, as it bursts its shell, spreading into the oak; ouf 
bodies, as they silently and constantly expand, are not more true to the 
physical laws of their being, than are our immortal spirits, when of thdr 
own determination, they advance from strength to strength, ever longiog 
to be greater. 


Alas ! many a man, fired with ambition, itself commendable, has from 
oisguided judgment, mined himself, and injured all over whom he has 
tad an influence. Instead of becoming a great and well developed man, 
te has distorted himself into a hideous monster. 

DijQScult though it be, it is therefore well to analyze the idea of Great- 
lesfli, to try to ascertain its elements, that we may be able to produce that 
irhich is true, and to detect the false. Let us then turn our minds into 
i sort of laboratory, and there examine the characters of great men, ap- 
)]ying to them the tests of Judgment, Memory and Reason, and endeav- 
xing to discover what has caused their eminence. 

Bat first we must ask, who are the great, from whom we are to derive 
our abstract idea of greatness ? 

Ask the world, — and it will tell you those are great who have done 
great things. Examine history, — and see that the world has almost uni- 
formly bestowed its honors, though not always its rewards, upon such 
grounds as these. Some great event, some important discovery, some 
Wliant course of conduct, enrolls the author among great men. The 
truth is, the world loves to have an idol, and it seldom stops to make a 
diBcriminating choice. Now it will sing, " Mighty is Baal !" and now it 
cries, " Great is Diana of the Ephesians I" and it cares but little whether 
it calls Alexander, or Peter, or Louis, the Great. 

I object to the principle that they alone are great who have done great 
filings ; but even admitting it to be true, the importance of the Moral 
dement is scarcely any less. . Men shrink from admitting the fact. They 
had rather give the credit of success to any other element. They will 
Convince themselves that they can be great without the aid of their moral 
Matures. They set to work to accomplish this end, and if they exer- 
cise their moral powers, as they surely will, it is no thanks to them. If 
hey succeed in actually becoming great, it is because their work was 
jght, although their reasoning was wrong. 

One man relies on Birth. Birth, he thinks, gives aU a rank, and das- 
Sfies tlie Great, from Sovereigns down to Squires. It in his view cor- 
"ectly makes a man My Lord, a Gracious Duke, a Royal Highness, and 
Jven a Most Excellent Majesty. He deems himself a Noble Man. Usage^ 
Society, and the Law, acknowledge him as such. His father was noble 
before him, his son will be after him. Relying thus on pedigree, he 
hmks that he is great, and that none equal him but those of equal birth. 

But is this greatness ? Does this make a man perform great actions ? 
Does this incite his will ? Does this confer perpetual glory on his name ? 
[f so, then let our books of Heraldry be Bibles, and let Nobles be our 


Saints. No I more than birth is needed. Rank may assist, it cannot 
originate action. There must be a moral element in character which will 
provoke action, and enable man to devote his social rank, whatever that 
may be, to some specific end. 

Another adores the Greatness of Wealth. He measures greatness bj 
pounds sterling. He has heard of Croesus, and all that he accomplished. 
He has seen the distinction of a Rothschild and an Astor. He has 
learned to fawn on Dives, and to tread on Lazarus. 

But does mere wealth constitute greatness ? Then it is easy to rank 
each man numerically, and say precisely what his greatness is. Now you 
can arrange mankind according to a definite scale, and state their precise 
values. Put Croesus at the top of your list, as the greatest man the 
world has ever seen, and place Diogenes, the hungry tenant of a tub, 
among the very lowest. Let misers die no more, " unwept, unhonored, 
and unsung," but sound their praises, as the great of earth. Let an au- 
thor who prints his own works, who binds them in Turkey, and gives 
them away, be ranked as great ; and let Milton, Bunyan, and Shakspeare, 
poor men, who had to sell their writings for a pittance, be never men- 
tioned more. Bid thieves and robbers persevere, for theirs is a noble 
calling ; they are toiling to be great ! 

Another thinks that in official station, the main element of greatness 
lies. Videri quam esse^ is emblazoned on his arms. To be first in posi- 
tion, he thinks is to be greatest in fact. He would rather sit in state 
upon Mt. Blanc, than be the Atlas who supports the world. Not only 
so, but he must be called Supreme, as well as hold the highest post He 
must not only rule, but reign. Napoleon, for example, dissatisfied as 
consul with the highest power, demands the title of Emperor. Statesmen 
in our land have not been content with directing the government, but 
envy the presidential chair. 

But will mere station make us great ? Then was Greorge the Third, 
a monarch of inferior talents, a greater man than Burke or Chatham ; 
and Louis XV, in his licentious palace, was superior to Newton, in his 
quiet study. Avaunt ! such sentiments 1 

" Pygmies are Pygmies still, though perched on Alps, 
And Pyramids are Pyramids, in vales." 

Mere station will not make us do great things. There must be some- 
thing to direct official influence, or it will make us more notorious, though 
not a whit the greater. 

Another places greatness in the intellect ; and as he takes a nobler 
ground than those who honor merely birth, wealth, and official 8tatiox^ his 


statements are more plausible, and therefore more generally believed. 
Without intellect, he thinks that everything else is useless; with intel- 
lect, everything is valuable. He forgets that many great deeds have 
been done by men of small minds, and that intellect is no more the 
cause of important action, than stores of gold, long lines of ancestry, or 
pages of oflBcial titles. Compared with wealth, birth, and station, which 
are mere instruments, intellect may be a massive engine ; but all need 
alike the application of a force to make them eflScient. That force is 
moral character. Why have not all scholars done great actions ? Why 
is not Germany more famous for its men of might, than any other land ? 
Why do the vulgar, so fond of paying homage to the great, despise the 
university ? Why are theorists condemned, when the world wants ac- 
tion ? Because, if the intellect alone is cultivated, the man is unfit for 
work. His memory may be stored with all the dates of history, he may 
have mastered fifty languages, he may have thought out a wonderful 
system of philosophy, and yet not do, nor even be able to do a single 
great action. What is genius, learning, or education, without a moral 
character to give it point and force ? Why has so many a genius been 
drowned in the wine cup ? Why have so many been impaired by vice, 
or ruined by sloth ? Because morality alone gives force to native talents, 
or high cultivation. 

But we may regard our subject in a higher light. The true idea of 
greatness lies not so much in what men do, as in what they are. What 
they do, depends, after all, too much upon external circumstances. What 
they are, depends much more upon themselves. The most insignificant 
may be placed where they will affect the world. " Give me a place to 
stand," said Archimedes, " and I will move the world." Give anybody 
the right external circumstances, and his efliciency is much increased. A 
grain of sand will turn a delicate balance. One spark will burst a mag- 
azine. Not only can little men thus do great things, but great men of- 
ten have no chance to show their power. Bring out great men, place 
them in emergencies, and they will display their strength. Steam was as 
strong a force before the days of Watt, as it is at the present moment. 
Niagara, though it turns less factory wheels than many a rivulet, has not 
less power ; nor is it now more mighty than it was before its roar had 
been heard, or its cataract seen by any human being. 

Let this suffice to show that we must scrutinize men's characters for 
evidence that they are great We must look at the man, at all which 
makes him what he is, at that which is inherent in his nature. If char- 

voL. XVII. 43 


acter is great, the man is great, and so he will appear in every coua^t^i 
at every age, and among all classes of society. 

Truly then, Morality is essential to greatness, aye, like the oxygeirrm cl 
the atmosphere, it is its most important element, pervading and vivify^ :3ng 
all the others. Our moral natures are essential portions of our hunr — jmi 
characters. They are not superadded to our intellectual powers. Tta — ere 
is no ridding ourselves of their existence. No man ever lived withoi^^t a 
moral responsibility. Indeed, it is what distinguishes us from brutes^^. so 
that without developing his moral traits, a man would develop only J:^^^ 
tions of his character. He might as well boast of having a great bo -^cly, 
because he had a swollen limb, as to boast of being a great man, wkziaen 
his intellectual traits had been trained to excess, and his moral trsvts 

It is easy to illustrate the assertion that the Moral element is essen^i^ial 
to true greatness, by a reference to the nature of Him, who of all beiEUKgs 
is the greatest. But it is enough to allude to his character, for all rec<i>§«' 
nize in Him the full development of moral greatness. 

So, too, the great men of the Bible, held up for our example, all show 
this moral element of greatness, not independent of intellectual streng'tJi, 
but superior to it. Joseph, Moses, David, Paul, and a score of oth- 
ers could be named, whose moral characters raised them above all ad- 
verse circumstances. But why need we name them ? One has appeared, 
who, considered merely as a man, aside from his divine authority, has 
done the most, has exerted the widest influence, and has been the great- 
est of any who have lived. 

But what were the elements of his greatness? Was it his wealth? 
He had not where to lay his head. Was it his birth ? He was the son 
of a carpenter, and was cradled in a manger. Was it official station ? He 
was despised and rejected of men. Was it mere intellect ? His follow- 
ers were fishermen. It was his moral force, which was the secret of liis 

We may find another illustration of the importance of the moral ele- 
ment in greatness, from the methods which are pursued by epic poets. 
Seeking to gain for their heroes the admiration of their readers, they dii* 
play to them those only who are distinguished for virtuous action, and 
noble feeling. None others would command our interest. 

Moreover, the moral element in greatness is that which is held out foT 
the young to imitate. It is the lives of the good, and the good traits in 
the lives of the great, which are brought before them as examples. H 
Napoleon is honored, it is not for divorcing his wife, nor for loying car- 


Bage, but for decision, energy and perseverance. Your reading book for 
children does not contain the lives of Judas, Nero, and Arnold, but of 
Socrates, Luther, and Washington. 

Such facts all indicate that whether greatness consists in doing great 
things, or whether it lies in the noble development of human nature, — it 
has a moral element which commends itself to the sober judgment and 
permanent admiration of all the human race ; and that without morali- 
ty, there is neither a stimulus to action, nor a full display of the powers 
with which we are created. 

This element is equally essential to the greatness of the individual, the 
nation, and the family of man. Cull out from the descendants of Adam 
those whom an intelligent, impartial jury will consider great, and tell me, 
is it not so 1 Is Felix, on the throne, a greater man than Paul, ar- 
raigned in chains ? He trembled, when Paul reasoned. Is Leo X, the 
Pope of Rome, the Holy Father, the self-proclaimed Vicegerent of the 
Deity, the greatest of his age ? An unknown monk is soon to shake the 
Pontiff's chair, and spread dismay through all the Vatican. Charles II, 
with good reason, thought he was the greatest of his time, hailed as he 
was upon the- Restoration, with such adulation as never man before re- 
ceived. Noble titles were showered upon him, but a noble moral charac- 
ter he never possessed. Licentious in private hfe, tyrannical in govern- 
ment, and venal in diplomacy, his honors seemed in inverse relation to 
his excellence. But who now calls him great ? The most zealous tory, 
fired with hatred at the objects of Cromwell's aim, must admit that the 
Lord Protector was far the greater man, for he had within a moral prin- 
ciple, which, with all the faults that are charged upon him, made him 
eminent beyond any height to which Charles, with all his titles, wealth 
and homage, had ever thought of reaching. 

The same moral elements of character have inspired reformers — 
strengthened martyrs — emboldened generals. They have advanced 
"whole nations of men, elevating them far above contemporary nations in 
honor, influence, and power. They exert an influence strong and decided 
on the civilization of our race, and are hasting the day when wars and 
fightings shall cease, and vice and immorality be gone. 

But let us take our thoughts one step beyond. There is another 
world, to which we all look forward, but if we would reach that happy 
place, we are assured that it is this moral element alone of character, 
that is there recognized. Let the world here give its honors as it will, 
we there shall find that not many wise men after the flesh, not many 
mighty, not many noble are called, but only those who have been great 
and good. 


9il)t |)oUtical Influence of (CotDna anb Cities. 


All political organizations derive their existence primarily from towns 
or cities ; and their permanence depends in a great measure upon the same. 

In the nebular hypothesis of La Place, it is supposed that the first step 
towards the development of the Universe, from the indefinite expansion 
of its gaseous elements, was a condensation of matter around first one, 
and then many central, attracting points. Whether this theory be the 
true solution of the first processes of physical creation, or not, it well il- 
lustrates, mutatis mutandis, the commencement of all social institutions 
among men. Every individual of our race is a particle among the ele- 
ments of society. So long as these remain in a state of indefinite expan- 
sion, no organization of any kind can take place. But introduce an 
attracting force, which shall determine them towards a nucleus of con- 
centration, and Society at once appears — a tangible reality. Give to this 
nucleus its ordinary name, and the import of our proposition^ with ite 
truth, will be evident. 

The old patriarchal institution, and the still ruder bands of nomadic 
and predatory savages, who, under chieftains of various names, now des- 
olate some portions of our globe, are exceptions. But their instability 
and insignificance assign to them a grade far below all other political as- 
sociations with which, in strictness, they must be generically classed. As 
experiments, however, they are much to the point, in giving weight to 
the importance which we have attached to towns. 

But however great the importance of towns and cities, in giving birth 
to political associations, their own subsequent influence is in turn greatly 
modified by the form of government created. And these modifications 
account, in a great measure, for the wide disparity of influence which is 
discovered by comparing cities of different ages of history, and of differ- 
ent parts of the world. 

To facilitate an enquiry into the nature of this disparity, I shall distin- 
guish all forms of government into two classes. The first may comprise 
all the absolutely despotic, leaving to the second all those into which en- 
ters, to any extent, the constitutional or democratic element. The con- 
trast between these two classes is in nothing more apparent than in the 
respective influences of their cities. 

The best exhibitions of the legitimate workings of the former class, 


were afforded in the earlier ages of the world, when despotism predomi- 
nated, though a few specimens yet remain, wielding a fearful power over 

An acute philosophical writer of the day, in speaking of the " ancient 
civilizations," says, " In their political life, (we see) absolute monarchy, 
the entire organization of which is only the earthly image of the great 
Celestial Court, of the Sun and his retinue, and of which the Chief — 
representative of the Deity himself — is clothed with an unlimited power 
like him, and like him, pronounces irrevocable decrees." * * * " In- 
dia and China, fossil remains of that ancient Orient which perished under 
the blows of the Greek, subsist as if to represent down to the present 
moment the antique civilization of the first ages."* It is then to the 
Babylons and Ninevehs of the ancients that we must look for the most 
perfect types of cities under despotic rule, rather than to any that now 
exist, with the exception perhaps of those immense assemblages that are 
found in Eastern Asia. 

In general, the tendency of absolute monarchies is to give great prom- 
inence to their cities, stimulating an unhealthy overgrowth, until they 
become magnificent inflations, fatally deficient in solid strength. The 
reasons are evident. Imperial cities — the abodes of royalty — must be 
embellished with all the refinements of art. Palaces, imposing without, 
and gorgeous within, will be reared. Temples for worship, and hanging 
gardens for pleasure, embodying man's highest conceptions of architectu- 
ral grandeur, will mingle with other structures, public and private, all 
studiously designed to please the eye of royalty. Walls for defense are 
not forgotten, and these must be so massive, that royal vanity may find 
self-gratification in riding over their summits with a full retinue of chari- 
ots. Add to this the fascination of court ceremonial ; the scarlet, the 
purple and the gold, that mingle in the apparel of the king's household ; 
and the pageant that ever accompanies his person, as he moves in state 
through the prostrate ranks of his servile subjects ; and we have a sum 
of attractions of great power : peculiarly so upon the minds of a semi- 
babarous people, whose susceptibility to all that glitters has often been 
noticed. All eyes will center on the splendid pile, even from the most 
distant provinces. To get a glimpse of the sceptre that sways so much 
grandeur, will become the earnest desire of many a peasant ; to live 
within sight of imperial magnificence, his beau-ideal of a happy life. 

In harmony with these attractions, ambition and avarice will urge to 

* "Earth and Man," p. 806.— Prot Quyot. 


the same centre every heart that cherishes their fires. The monarch's 
smile is rank, and his nod is gold to the lucky favorite. Hence the 
avenues to preferment and to wealth lie near the throne, and thither will 
many go. 

But this is not all. The administration of the laws in despotic coun- 
tries (and the existence of a form at least of justice, is essential to the 
integrity of any governmental system) is usually far more equitable 
under the immediate oversight of the supreme legislator, than at any 
considerable distance from him. To secure the same strictness of justice 
in the provinces as at the Capitol, would require honest viceroys, and 
armies proportionate to the extent of territory ; but the former are rarely 
to be found, and the latter are often more needed in the purposes of self- 
defense or of conquest, which are too apt to absorb the royal mind. 
History tells many sad tales of provincial insecurity and disorder, even in 
the most powerful £mpires. Ministers of justice have been prone to turn 
oppressors, when removed from the eyes of their masters ; and outlaws, 
less legally commissioned, but with no more brutality, have combined to 
drain an impotent peasantry of their hard-earned substance ; while Envy 
and Revenge have wrought many bloody deeds with equal impunity. 

Surely to beings thus circumstanced, the quiet city, though subject to 
the immediate control of an arbitrary despot, is a preferable alternative. 

With these powerful impulses to centralization in view, no one need 
wonder at the vast size to which the cities of ancient Empires attained in 
situations which, at the present day, would hardly command a single 
settler. When they were at once great theatres of display, arenas for 
the strifes of ambition, and citadels for the weak, no one can wonder at 
their preeminent importance in barbarous ages, when history indeed is 
only a history of cities. 

Nor can any one wonder that these cities should have so speedily de- 
cayed, and so completely as not to leave even a hamlet behind to pre- 
serve their names. It was to have been expected. For with the ove^ 
throw of the Central government by foreign invasion or otherwise, the 
multitudes of an imperial city are left aimless, and must soon disperse 
to seek elsewhere the gratification of their desires. When the bubble 
bursts, the particles that form its gaudy film are scattered to the winds, 
and nothing remains of the beautiful sphere. Thus the decay of Baby- 
lon was rapid the moment it was degraded to the rank of a provincial 
town ; and not many centuries had passed 'ere the cries of wild-beasts 
were heard within walls that had once echoed to the bacchanals of kings. 

Some, in whose distorted visions the whole past is invested with a halo 


of glory, are disposed to mourn that with the era of pure despotisms 
that of such wonderful cities has also passed by. They certainly were 
piles of more grandeur than will probably ever grace the world again, 
and the magnificence of oriental pageantry will live only in legends and 
romances. But if the world is never again to see such displays of 
wealth and power, let us hope that with them are forever banished those 
dark deeds of oppression, which, though invariable concomitants of the 
former, have had but little place in annals or song. 

We turn with pleasure from the cities of Despotism, to those of a £sir 
different class. 

A single limitation imposed by the nation governed upon the author^ 
ity of their rulers, and legally sanctioned, creates a wide chasm between 
them and any pure despotism. 

As an avowal of that liberty which is man's birthright, it gives to the 
individual a self-reliant manliness, to the nation a higher tone of feelings 
modifying materially all the relations of its component parts. 

It is through these modifications that we are to trace the political in-* 
fluence of towns and cities. 

Naturally, we look for the best types of cities under this, our second 
dass, to the nation which has most nearly approached the ideal of a per- 
fect popular government. An estimate of the influence of these will 
leave us better prepared to pursue similar inquiries in reference to those 
of other systems more monarchical in form and in spirit. 

Our Republic is rich in cities of sizes by no means insignificant Six- 
ty-two with populations of ten thousand and upwards, are scattered 
through the Union. These all strongly contrast with the cities of Des- 
potism in that they are centres of commercial and manufacturing busi- 
ness, rather than of political action. Our government, in which the self- 
constituent unit of despotism is replaced by a multiplicity of chosen of- 
fice-bearers, and the prodigal display of a court, by a studied simplicity, 
affords in itself no centre of attraction. The presence of its executive 
officers gives no special prominence to any city. The Federal Capital,, 
instead of being the first is only the fifteenth city of the nation in respect 
to size. The connection then of our cities with the government is of 
trivial moment, and their direct political influence small. 

Nor are our cities in any sense places of refuge from oppression. The 
sovereign power that commissions the ministers of justice is many-eyed^ 
and the searching glance of every freeman is quick to detect the least 
approach to oppression. The great fact of individual responsibility, on 


the part of every citizen, in the affairs of government recognized among 
us, is a perpetual check upon maladministration of every kind. 

But while our cities have little importance as political centres, their in- 
direct influence on the politics of the country is vast. Moral, and not 
physical strength is the main element of power in our land, and of this 
our cities possess much. 

As on the sea-beach stone wears upon stone until all are rounded into 
pebbles ; so in the city, mind, in continual attrition with mind, must no- 
ticeably change. The intimate association of large masses of men which 
occurs in cities creates a corresponding contrast between the city resident 
and the rustic, in character and opinion. The former gains more practi- 
cal knowledge of human nature in a day than the latter can in a year's 
theorizing over his plow. In all that concerns the nature of man as a 
social being he has a decided advantage. His whole life is a series of 
compromises with his fellow-men ; and his skill in the adjustment of con- 
flicting rights is proportionally sharpened. The same may be said of his 
acuteness in calculating the consequences of action — that great distinc- 
tion between man and brute, and the same quality that places one states- 
man above another. These being the elements of judicious and effiective 
political action, the city resident acquires a political sagacity unknown 
to others. 

Moreover, the circumstances of his life tend to give him more firmness 
of character, and to diminish his liability to hasty action. The extremes 
of joy and of wo — those mainsprings of human action — meet him at 
every turn, till he is hardened to their influence. The farce and the trag- 
edy are enacted together in the drama of his every-day life. The bridal 
chariot and the hearse roll together through the streets. Passing by, he 
may yield for a glance under the impulse of curiosity. Envy and dread 
may steal momentarily into his mind, but speedily his thoughts hurry 
back to the business of the hour, and the altar and the grave are for- 
gotten amid the perplexities of the counting-room. Thus is his sensibil- 
ity deadened, and he becomes the less impulsive, and the more capable 
of calm reflection. 

Thus qualified to form correct political opinions, he only needs some 
means of inculcating them upon the country at large ; and this he ac- 
complishes in two ways. Personal intercourse, either by public or pri- 
vate address, is one, and when backed by an acknowledgement of his 
superiority, it becomes highly effective. The rustic is continually re- 
minded by his own consciousness, if not otherwise, of a great inferiority 

] "periit;' 341 

refined and learned friend of the city, and thus he is better pre- 
to adopt the opinions of the latter. 

. there is another instrument of far greater power in propagating 
politan opinions. It is the Press. This mighty engine, whose free- 
ind whose power are the theme of every one's patriotic pride, is a 
politan monopoly. Who may measure the influence of the mill- 
)f sheets, stamped with thoughts of life and words of fire, that it 
•s like daily food to hungry minds ? With this for his sceptre, the 
sident in our land bears a prouder, a nobler sway over millions, 
lid ever an oriental despot 

i importance then of cities in a free land, as schools of politics^ and 
tres of political opinion, is incalculable. To attempt to compare 
with such as are only centres of despotic power, would be like 
ring the intellect of man by a brute's inteDigence. 
) main principles which regulate the respective influence of cities 
Despotism and Democracy are now before us. With these ex- 
\ well understood it is not difficult to calculate the varieties of in- 
3 under the intermediate Forms of Grovemment. 

following lines, written some twenty years ago, fell into my hands by aoet- 
le other day. They have never been published, to my knowledge^ aod I send 
yoa to dispose of them as you please. l. 



Soon came the Summer hour^ 
With all its blooming pride, — 
Then sprang full many a flower 
Along the shining tide. 
Ah ! then decay was nearest, 
When all was brightly gay, 
For joys the best, the dearest— 
And first to flee away. 

For autumn's day of sorrow 
Game sadly moaning on. 
And on that darkened morrow 
We looked the flowers were gone; 
All gone the buds we cherished 
When youth and love were new, 
And e*en the storm had perished 
On which the blossoms grew. 
L, XVIII. 44 


flatng Ba'Qs in ColUge. 

Do you know the perfection of all cheerlessness here in College! 
Perhaps you will be troubled to make a judicious selection from the great 
bundle of similarities. If it is not a real rainy day we are mistaken. 

Think of a rainy morning ! The bell half through ringing before you 
wake from a dream of pleasant hours, or smiles, or home. The in- 
cessant dash of many drops against the window-panes; a damp, cold 
chill pervading the atmosphere. Dampness is on every thing. Even 
the water seems to leave an uncommonly humid sensation, as you dash 
it hastily upon your face to arrive at a state of tolerable wakefulness. 

Then there is a peculiarly uncomfortable damp feeling in ones' cloth- 
ing, evon to the old overcoat which has hung out of the reach of mois- 
ture for a month or two. So much for the pleasure of rising. Now for 
a plunge. The bell is in the second stage of a real funeral toll. The 
short, leaden sounds, come heavily through the rain in upon your ears. 
The quick vibrations which it emits, seem only to shake the rain-drops 
down more rapidly. You do not pause to locate your umbrella in the 
proper direction. You have no time to pick your steps daintily up the 
street and quietly saunter into Chapel. No ! One vigorous plunge. A 
deluge of rain at once removes all recollection of any moist feeling, and 
imparts a decided impression that you are wet. Long strides Chapel- 
ward. You are going on from wet to wetter. No matter for that 
What is a cold, a cough, the hectic flush, perhaps a fever, perhaps tears, 
and mourning, to an absence mark, when you have already seven, eleven, 
or nineteen. One may bring your friends in haste, anxiety, kindness, may 
be sorrow, to your bedside. The other will be sure to cloud their smiles and 
will bring a stem rebuke from those whom you may desire to please. Well, 
haste has brought you to the Chapel. Bustle in quickly or you are late! 
Oh ! the comfort of sitting down to drip on a nice, soft, board seat. But you 
all know that. Prayers fall like the rain-drops upon the cold earth, unfelt 
into many hearts. God grant that with a warm sun they may yet ger- 
minate many virtues. 

You dodge from Chapel to the recitation room. The spice of variety 
is there. The room is a little colder than usual — perhaps a trifle damper. 
What six penny rushes — what 'complacent fizzles — what unmitigated 
flunks are reserved for rainy mornings ? The Tutor tries to be brisk. 
The students don't care. The room is cheerless. Hearts are cheerless. 
Faces seem to have vowed an eternal enmity to smiles. It is a rainy morning. 


The last " suffidenf^ — the next lesson — the request for some luckless fel- 
low to remain — the final bow are the only circumstances which seem to 
elicit anything like a manifestation of joy. Beat a retreat to your room 
before breakfast. Cold, uninviting, damp as ever. The rain patters a 
little harder. The wind has freshened a trifle. It may be colder. There 
is no cheerfulness at the breakfast table. Cold coflfee — cold buckwheats — 
a general coldness. The man who can keep up an equilibrium of spirits 
on a rainy morning has indeed a good disposition. Now for the day's 
toil. There is no real vigorous study to-day. A good fire does not 
warm up your spirits. There is no exercising out of doors. A glance 
into the street is quite sufficient to quench any such unnatural desire. 
The gutters are in their glory — a perfect holiday for them. People go by 
shrouded under overcoats and umbrellas, and with their thick boots 
they splash heavily and ill-natured along. One poor hack, shut up close- 
ly, with its black form glistening in the rain, a wet driver and a span of 
disconsolate looking horses, creeps slowly through the street. So in 
alternate trying and failing to study, and gazing vacantly into the rain 
without, the day passes. You cannot smile if you would. There is 
nobody to return a pleasant look. The countenances of your best friends 
are cheerless as the sky above, and their smiles are like to-day's sun- 
beams — latent in the thick cloud that sweeps unceasingly along and 
incessantly drops its moist treasures around you. 

Oh ! the delight of Evening Prayers, on a rainy day. There are as 
many umbrellas as there are individuals, and what dripping! How 
pleasant to the touch a cold, wet umbrella ! Anacondas are toys to 
them. There is a clamminess about them which reminds one of some- 
thing indescribably wet and terribly uncomfortable to the touch. Then 
how good natured everybody is. Did you ever have a beaver new — 
nearly new or old even — crushed beneath the weight of its superincum- 
bent responsibilities, and do you know the particular graciousness with 
which all owners are wont to regard the operation ? Perhaps you do- 
perhaps not. I own a beaver which was ten times a victim to the stu- 
pidity of my neighbor in Chapel. I cured him of his habit by victim- 
izing his poor, innocent chapeau on the eleventh occasion. Each one of 
these accidents occurred on rainy evenings. 

Now comes the best part of a rainy day — its exit A smoking cup of 
Hyson superinduces a state of semi-cheerfulness, in which the truth that 
rainy days do not (or at least not usually) last always, is vividly and 
hopefully impressed upon the mind. A lesson is droned through early. 
A nice, generous fellow, who knows your rainy day humor, comes in to 


waste a good Havanna and an hour with you. That man would be a 
martyr, only he wants the opportunity to consummate the natural 
promptings of his heart The evening wears away. Your friend takes 
his leave. The storm is lulling. The wind has an empty, fitful sound, 
as if wasting strength. The rain patters more gently. Old Morpheus 
comes sailing down upon you on his great linen pinions, and his veiy 
jolly bolster-like phiz stares you in the face. You sleep to dream pleas- 
antly, and wake to the joy of a fresh, clear, cloudless sky, and genial 
sunbeams, or to the unexpressed and inexpressible misery of a second 
rainy day in College. o. 

ttrimBlation of ^natxtorCB ®&e " 8i;o tl)e Host." 


Now the tender rose I eing 

Of the garland wearing Spring, 

Comrades, it is meet for thee 

Now to sing the rose with me ; 

This the breath of Gods above, 

Object this of mortals' love, — 

This the Qraces' chief delight. 

And a toy of Aphrodite, 

When with many-blushmg flowers 

Cupid rules the golden hours. 

This in song the poets care, 

Graceful plant of Muses fair. 

Pleasant as the sunlight falls, 

Joy of feasts and banquet haUs. 

What misfortune would it be 

I^ sweet rose, deprived of thee I 

Rosy fingered. Goddess-bom, 

Brings Aurora back the mom. 

Rosy armed the Nymphs invite 

Rosy-colored Aphrodite. 

These the ndmes the bard bestows^ 

Giving honor to the rose. 

Graceful to those suffering iU, 

Pleasant in the sick-room still, — 

This defends the dead from harm, 

This can lead to life a charm ; 

Breathing even in decay 

IVagranee of its early day. J. s. x- 

1852.] THE deacon's plunge. 345 

9l)e WtatorCB |)lunge. 

The sun went quietly down behind the old New England hills. A 
few withered remnants of the varied, autumnal foliage gleamed in his 
departing rays. The sky was clear, and golden with the peculiar and 
beautiful tinge of Autumn. The few, fleeting clouds, which had during 
the day glided across the deep blue sky, had swept away into the now 
dusky east The cool, west wind had died away, and upon Nature fell 
the calm of approaching night Then the moon came climbing up from 
the east, looking upon earth and men with her quiet gaze, all uncondoua 
that the little, modest stars were martyrs to her soft refulgence. 

What New England country-boy does not know that an autumnal 
night, with its clear, frosty atmosphere and bright moonsheen, is the most 
unequivocally glorious time for sport or sleep? Let women and poetasters 
waste their exstasies over Spring, with its birds and flowers, but for com- 
fort, for fim and real enjoyment give me autumn, with its fruits and gold- 
en, rustling grain, its sunny days and moonlight nights. At any rate it 
was a chilly, November evening, and we were bound to have sport Our 
party numbered two jovial country-boys, my classmate P., a young city mill- 
ionaire whose wine and and cigars were as good as they were plentiful, and 
warranted epicure-proo^ and last and least, myselfl We were all careful 
to retire early, and to make the fact that we were quietly and soundly 
sleeping in conscious innocence as public as possible, for we were regard- 
ed with suspicious eyes, and the general impression existed that if we 
were not engaged in mischief, it was from no lack of inclination; and be- 
sides the morality of our expedition would certainly find many incorri- 
gible doubters among the goodly country-people. For my own part I 
was careful to retire with a younger brother who was the most perfectly 
imperturbable sleeper since the days of old Rip Van Winkle, and to im- 
press upon the urchin's mind the fact that I was sleeping by his side. By 
ten o'clock every eye in the village was closed, and I quietly left 
the old paternal farm house, silvered in the moonshine, and hastened to 
the appointed rendezvous, which was a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
by precipitous, wooded hills, at some distance from the village, and so se- 
cluded as to secure us against all fear of observation or assault 

In the goodly village of Q., which was the scene of our present sketch, 
Dea. Pip lived, and now lives, if he is not dead. Dea. Peter Pip was a 
deacon of the old style, and though a graceless man, in one point of 


view, his position would seem to warrant the opinion that in the better 
qualities of the heart, he was by no means deficient Nature had evi- 
dently sought to mortify her own pride, in designing such a pattern of 
humanity. Mrs. Pip was the deacon's wife, and was her husband^s bet- 
ter part in every respect. Connoisseurs said she was even homelier than 
the deacon. At any rate, she was very ugly. Not plain ! By no 
means! To have said that would have been rather complimentary. In 
short, so niggardly had Nature been in bestowing personal charms upon 
the venerable dame, that no one had ever been so utterly gross as to tell 
the deacon that his lady was beautiful, or lovely, or very pretty, or pretty, 
or handsome, or rather good looking, or even tolerable. It is really con- 
soling to know that there are some falsehoods so notoriously and une- 
quivocally untrue, that no one can be found wicked enough to utter them. 
Here was one. If Dea. Pip had not been a very thoughtless, as well as 
a good man, he might sometime in his life have entertained a very ra- 
tional doubt in regard to the humanity of her countenance. If he had 
not been a very ugly man himself, he might have reproached her for her 
defects. So it was well that the deacon was good, and ignorant, and 
withal ugly. Now, although Mrs. Pip had all these personal defects, 
she had still one charming quality. She was the most skillful poulterer 
in the whole region. From morning till night, year in and year out^ 
Dea. Pip's premises rang with the loud and joyous notes of almost count- 
less barnyard domestics. The good dame's heart was ever rejoiced with 
an exhaustless hoard of eggs, and the discriminating tradesmen at the 
market-town hailed the advent of Dame Pip's chickens with epicurean 
glee. It was therefore accorded, by universal acclamation, that samples 
of the deacon's poultry must be obtained. Who knew, forsooth, that 
we might not sometime have occasion to purchase such family necessa- 
ries, and what is like experience in such matters ? It is enough for our 
readers to know that the lord of that yard, together with two plump 
maidens, who but yesterday had scratched the earth in all the pride and 
beauty of youth, were noiselessly plucked, by the strong hand of vio- 
lence, down from the roost, and hastily removed from these earthly scenes 
of com and grub-worms. A blazing fire greeted the return of the ad- 
ventures. The earth was soon covered with the downy vesture of our 
victims. The spits were industriously and carefully twirled. A rude ta- 
ble was spread upon the earth. All night long we feasted upon the 
spoils, toyed with the sparkling glass, or patronized a box of good old 
Havanas. Then toasts went round, to night and beauty, moonshine and 
love ; to the past, the present, and the golden future, and last^ but not 

1852.] THE deaoon's plunge. 347 

least, we drained our cups to the venerable Dea. Pip — " to him length of 
days, and his fill of joy." *' Stolen fruit," says the proyerb, "is sweet," 
and that night it was well verified. 

The morning breeze shook the seared leaves with a gentle tremor. The 
east was reddening with the approaching day. The moon in the west 
was growing paler. Then, with a parting song, and three loud cheers, 
which shook the old hills, and echoed far away in the surrounding for- 
ests, our little party broke up, and each beat a careful retreat homeward. 
The cock sent forth his cheering notes far and wide, welcoming the morn 
with his shrill voice. The faithful milkmaid was tripping forth to her 
early task, when I stole noiselessly up to my bed, and laid down for a 
morning nap. 

Dame Pip was an early riser, nor was her careful ear slow to detect 
the absence of the noble lord of her barnyard troupe. Much to her sur- 
prise and sorrow — much to the deacon's unhallowed ire, it was found, 
upon examination, that the glory of the roost had departed. Some 
broken palings and strange footprints showed at once to the deacon and 
his dame, that dark deeds had been consummated. Such exploits were 
by no means common in the quiet village of Q. The deacon was not a 
slow man to spread news, so, before noon, on the next day, there was 
not a crone, or tell tale old maid in the whole town who had not already 
wasted a vast store of horror and sorrow over this unparalleled manifes- 
tation of depravity on the part of the " youngsters." What added not 
a little to our comfort, and perhaps somewhat to our indignation, was 
the fact that, in conspicuous places on all the highways and byways in 
the village, were posted large handbills, through which the subscriber, 
(Dea. Pip,) offered a reward of twenty-five dollars for the detection of us, 
poor innocents, whom he stigmatized as thieves, rogues, juvenile villains, 
<kc. Such slander was intolerable. There was more fun in prospect. 
We had taken such precautions that, though the deacon had been dili- 
gent in his inquiries, we were sure that we were beyond detection, if not 
free from suspicion. So we felt bold. The deacon spent the most of 
that day, with hammer and nails in hand, strengthening by every expe- 
dient, the ramifications of his roost. He also publicly announced that he 
should procure a large dog to welcome the thieves on their next visit, and 
that they would find him, musket in hand, if they attempted any similar 
depredations in future. This latter threat produced no fear, for the dea- 
con was half blind, was known to be peculiarly nervous about fire-arms, 
and was withal too generous to indulge in any such pastime. But he 
seemed inclined to fulfill the latter threat at the very earliest opportunity. 

848 THX deacon's plunob. [Aug. 

It wai therefore indispenBably necessary that we should hasten to exe- 
cute our plan. 

The beautiful night and morning of which we have already spobOf 
was succeeded by one of those calm, quiet days, which in our climate so 
frequently herald an approaching tempest, and are for this reason desig- 
nated by the homely and truthful, though perhaps somewhat equivoesl 
appellation of "weather-breeders.'' As the day drew near its dose, the 
light, hazy douds, which had in the earlier hours shot up their' misty, 
scarcely perceptible points across the zenith, grew heavier and denser, 
and as evening closed in, the sky was enveloped in a thick vesture of 
douds, and, though the moon was nearly full, the darkness was quite 
unusual. Fresh pufife, too, came stronger and stronger from the storaiy 
N. £., and the peculiar and chilly temperature of the atmosphere seemed 
to portend that the first snow storm of the season was dose at hand. 
Hie night could not have been more favorable to our design. 

Tom C, one of the confederates, was the son of a wealthy fiuiner, who 
would not have missed a dozen chickens from among the multitude who 
inhabited his broad acres. Tom was in our plot, and volunteered to fin*- 
nish the requisites. Accordingly, a venerable chantideer, of gigantic 
size, whose vocal powers had frequently exdted Tom's admiratioD, was 
sdected as the fittest of its kind, to answer our purposes, and was eaie* 
fully deposited under a barrel, in an accessible position. 

It was eleven o'clock. The village was quiet. A strong breeze swept 
through the neighboring pines, and sent forth to our ears that moumfalf 
dirge like sound, which so often precedes a snow storm. Heate and there 
a snow flake came through the darkness, and fell with its bo% featheiy 
touch upon our faces. It was time for the curtain to rise. Tom unde^ 
stood the method of eliciting the most unearthly screams from bis victim. 
He was, moreover, the fleetest of the company, which was a qualification 
not to be neglected by us. He was therefore selected as the chief actor 
in the coming tragedy. As the old bell from the church tower tolled 
out the hour of eleven, there went up from the premises of Dea. Pip, 
such agonizing notes as were never heard before. Poor chantideer 
seemed to understand the nature of his mission, and to strive to please 
his masters. Not many moments elapsed before the door of the deacon's 
domicil was hastily opened, and a ghost-like figure, enveloped in a long, 
white, flowing robe, emerged, and rushed toward the spot where Tom 
had hitherto been standing. Loud exclamations were heard, and the 
chase began. What was toil for the deacon, was mere play for Tcmi, 
who was as fleet as a deer. Away went the pursuer and the pursued. 

1352.1 THE deacon's plunoe. 340 

Directly in front of the deacon's mansion stretched a narrow patch of 
meadow land, through which ran in every direction a multitude of deep 
ditches, which had from time to time been excavated. Beyond this lay 
I range of upland covered with a thick growth of young forest trees. 
In the edge of this wood lay concealed the remainder of our party. The 
land had previously been carefully examined, and Tom knew every inch 
of it So did the deacon, but his zeal in the chase made him forgetful. 
Directly across their path (perhaps by some mischievous design — perhaps 
not) lay the broadest, deepest, and filthiest ditch in the whole bog. 

In a neighboring cornfield we had often noticed a man of straw, which 
had withstood the buffets of the elements during the whole season, and 
was still in a tolerable state of preservation. The " Scarecrow" was car^ 
fully removed and suspended upon a stake which was set in the very 
centre of the ditch. To this point Tom directed his course. He had 
intentionally flagged that he might inspire the deacon in the chase. — One 
long leap has carried the pursued in safety across the slimy abyss. Close 

upon him is the pursuer. Louis's leap is unobserved ■ — — . Now 

the deacon is in his glory. His victim has halted. The thief is in his 
power — the rascal. One final strong eflfort and thou hast him. Sir deacon ! 
Then there was a closing of brawny arms — a half uttered, " Now Pve 

got ^ smothered into a kind of groan, a heavy plunge — a cry for help, 

and a loud, long, triumphant shout from Tom and his comrades. Now 
there was a bold clustering near the ditch, a wild, hearty laugh as the 
deacon clambered up from his slimy bath and took his way homeward. 
We could almost hear his teeth chatter with cold, as his now sable form 
receded in the darkness. 

The next day the odious handbills were all removed. The deacon 
never alluded to his adventure, but in some mysterious way it was noised 
abroad, and the deacon's plunge was the subject for many a joke, and 
many a laugh went round at his expense, when the knowing ones at Q. 
were gathered in the village tap-room or by the cheerful winter's fireside. 

VOL. xvn. 45 


®|)e I5oti0tl)ol& of Sir 9Ll)omas iHort.* 

We have often wondered that there have not been more imitaton 
among our modem authors of the delightful simplicity of the older 
English style. We have plenty of writers, great writers, too, but the 
principal object of modem authors has seemed the expression of ideas 
rather than those ideas themselves. We think because we must write, 
instead of writing because we have thoughts. Simplicity of style lias 
become almost a chimera, and what we do have under that name, seems 
rather the studied carelessness of the belle's morning neglig^ than the 
unaffectedness of pure nature. 

. There was a very false idea on the subject of gardening, prevalent 
some years ago, now happily obsolete, which showed a most ill-judged 
mania for unnatural nature. Everything must be distorted into an arti- 
ficial simplicity. The quiet brook, babbling through the fields, was 
forced by pipes to the top of a carefully irregular mound, and mustth^e 
burst into a fountain from a pile of rocks, and lose itself in m fish-pond. 
The pleasant grove, which had grown up in some sequestered comer d 
the rich parvenu's grounds must be felled and its place filled by gigsntic 
forest trees which were to form a ludicrous imitation of the ^forest 
primeval." All the wonders of nature, from every latitude and dime, 
were sometimes to be found in the small space of a few acres, exhibiting 
an affinity more singular than that which unites the ^ Happy Family/ 
and a combination more wonderful than that remarkable ^natwrd 
curiosity," the Fejee mermaid. 

This seems the kind of nature too often attempted by modem authors. 
They are prone also to mistake eccentricity for simplicity, baldness lor 
plainness. Under these circumstances, it is refreshing because it is so 
rare to find a book so charmingly natural as the one before us. The 
author, whoever he may be, has sustained his r61e most admirably. The 
book is just what the gentle Margareta would have written, if she did not 

The book is a sort of diary of events transpiring in the household of 
Sir Thomas More, the Chancellor of Henry the Eighth, after the M of 
Wolsey. He resigned his office rather than consent to the plans of the 
King, with regard to his marriage with Anne Boleyn, and soon after lost 
his head for refusing the oath of supremacy. With the character of the 
man. we are all acquainted. In private life he was exceedingly afiection- 

*Thp H(nif>eh(>ld of Sir Thomas More. Libellus a Margareta Mare. Quindedm 
loooB nata» Chelseiae iuceptua. ScribDer, 1852. 


ate, enjoying to the utmost the pleasares of a cheerful home and con- 
tented spirit, enlivened by wit and "decent mirth" In his public 
capacity he was strict and inflexible in the administration of justice and 
firm in the discharge of his duty. The blandishments of a King could 
not gain his consent to what he conceived to be a crime, and the terrors 
of the scaffold could not loosen his adherence to his faith. He entered 
upon public life with reluctance and quitted it with joy. His death was 
marked by the most exemplary Christian courage and fortitude. 

We are at a loss in making extracts from this charming book what to 
omit rather than what to select We hope, however, that what our lim- 
its will allow us to insert may induce some to read the whole book, for 
they cannot fail to derive both pleasure and profit from its perusal. 

She thus accounts for the commencement of her undertaking : " On 
asking Mr. Gunnel (who appears to have been the tutor of the family,) 
to what use I should put this fair libellus ; he did suggest my making it 
a kind of family register, wherein to note y* more important of our 
domestic passages, whether of joy or grief. My father's joumies and 
absences, the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings, ^c. ' You 
are smart at the pen, mistress Margaret,' he was pleased to say; and I 
would humblie advise your journalling in y' same fearless manner in 
the which you framed that letter which soe well pleased the Bishop of 
Sseter, that he sent you a Portugal piece. 'Twill be well to write it in 
English, which 'tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt even for 
the more honourable Latin.' Methinks I am close upon womanhood. 
^^J Humblie advise' quotha ! to me, who have so often humblie sued for his 
pardon and sometimes in vain ! 'Tis well to make trial of Gonellus, his 
* humble' advice. Albeit our dayly course is so methodicall, that 'twiH 
afford scant subject for y* pen. Vitam continet una dies." 

The diary commences with an account of the visit of Erasmus at her 
Other's house, his conversation, <fec., which we cannot divide nor admit 
the whole. With Erasmus, however, came her future husband. She 
thus describes their meeting : 

'^ Soe soon as I had kissed their hands and obtayned their blessings, 
the tall lad stepped forthe, and who y"* he be but William Roper, return- 
ed from my father's errand over seas! He hath grown hugelie and 
looks mannish ; but his manners are worsened insteade of bettered by 
foray n travels ; for insteade of his old franknesse, he hung upon hand till 
father bade him come forward ; and then, as he went his rounds, kissing 
one after another, stopt short when he came to me, twice made as though 
he would have saluted me, and then held back, making me look soe 


stupid, that I c' have boxed his ears for his payns. Specialie as fetber 
burst out a-laughing aod cried, * The third time's lucky."' Gentle 
Margaret I not perceiving, in her maiden innocence, the tokens of that 
love which was soon to command her heart ! Again, ** Will Roper hath 
brought mother a pretty little forayn animal called a marmot, but she 
said she had noe time for such-like playthings, and bade him give it to 
his little wife. Methinks, I being neare sixteen, and he close upon twenty, 
we are too old for those childish names now, nor am I much flattered at 
a present not intended for me; however, I shall be kind to the litde 
creature, and, perhaps, grow fond of it, as 'tis both harmlesi^ and diverting." 

She meets William in the nuttery. *' I cannot help smiling, whenever 
I think of my rencounter with William this morning. Mr. Gunnel had 
sent me Homer's tiresome list of ships ; all because of y* excessive heate 
within doors, I took my book into y* nuttery, to be beyonde y* wrath 
of far-darting Phoebus Apollo, where I clomb into my favorite filbert seat 
Anon comes William through y* trees without seeing me; and seatB 
himself at the foot of my filbert; then, out with his tablets, and, in a 
posture I 8^ have called studied, had he known anie one within sigfate, 
falls a poetizing, I question not. Having noe mind to be interrupted, I 
let him be, thinking he w** soon exhaust y* vein ; but a caterpillar drop- 
ping from y' leaves on to my page, I was fayn, for mirthe sake, to shake 
it down on his tablets. As ill luck w** have it, however, y* little reptile 
onlie fell among his curls ; which soe took me at vantage, that I could 
not help hastilie crying, *I beg your pardon.' Twas worth a world to 
see his start I * What,' cries he, looking up, * are these indeede Hama- 
dryads?' and would have gallanted a little but I bade him hold down 
his head, while that with a twig, I switched off y* caterpillar. Neither 
could forbear laughing ; and then he sued me to step downe; but I was 
minded to abide where I was. Howbeit, after a minute's pause, he sayd 
in a grave, kind tone, ' Come little wife ;' and taking mine arm steadilie 
in his hand, I lost my balance and was fayn to come down whether or 
noe. We walked for some time juxta fluvium ; and he talked notbadlie 
of his travels, inasmuch as I found there was really more in him than 
one w* think." 

She is exceedingly mortified at a mistake by which Mr. Gunnell gets a 
sight of her "libellus." This accident causes the following resolution. 
" Hum ! I have a mind never to write another word. That will be 
punishing myselfe, though, instead of Gunnel. And he bade me not 
take it to heart like y» late Bishop of Durham, to whom a like accident 
befel, which soe annoyed him, that he died of chagrin. I will never 


Eigain, howbeit, write anie thing savouring ever soe little of leritie or 
ftbsurditie. The saints keepe me to it ! And to know it from my exercise 
[xK>k, I will henceforth bind a blue ribbon round it. Furthermore, I will 
knit y* sayd ribbon in soe close a knot, that it shall be worth no one's 
dlse payns to pick it out Lastlie, and for entire securitie, I will carry 
the same in my pouch, which will hold bigger matters than this !'' 

Her father's conversation, in which he proposes she should marry "Will 
Roper, and her objections, very faint, you may be sure, her argument 
with Will on the subject of religion, (Will having been somewhat shaken 
in his popish faith,) we must omit But the result is inevitable and we 
must give her account of it 

" Soe my fate is settled. "Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance 
"before sunsett ? No ; the Greeks and Romans mighte speake of chance 
and of fete, but we must not. Ruth's hap was to light on y* field of 
Boaz ; but what she thought casual, y" Lord had contrived. First, he 
gives me y* marmot. Then, y* marmot dies. Then, I, having kept y* 
creature soe long and being naturalie tender, must cry a little over it 
Then Will must come in and find me drying my eyes. Then he must, 
most unreasonablie, suppose that I c^ not have loved the poor animal for 
its own sake soe much as for his ; and, thereupon, falls a love-making in 
such down-righte earneste, that I, being alreadie somewhat upsett, and 
knowing 'twould please father, and hating to be perver8e......and thinking 

much better of Will since he hath studied soe hard, and given so largely to 
y* poor, — and left oflf broaching his heteroclite opinions......! say, supposed 

it must be soe some time or another, soe 'twas no use hanging back for- 
ever and ever, soe now there's an end, and I pray God gives us a quiet 
life. No one w*^ suppose me reckoning on a quiet life, if they knew how 
Tve cried all this forenoon, ever since I got quit of Will, by father's 
carrying him off to Westminister. He'll tell father, I know, as they go 
along in the barge, or else coming back ; which will be soon enow, though 
Fve taken no heed of the hour. I wish 'twere cold weather, and that I 
had a sore throat or stiff neck, or somewhat that might send me reason- 
ablie to bed, and keep me there till to-morrow morning. But I'm quite 
well and it's the dog-days, and cook is thumping the rolling-pin on the 
dresser, and dinner is being served, and here comes father." 

But we must pass fix>m the happy scenes to the time when the clouds 
begin to come. Her father resigns his office. 

" He hath resigned the Great Seal ! And none of us knew e'en of 
his meditating it, nor of his having done soe, till after morning prayers 
to-day, when, insteade of one of his gentlemen stepping up to my moth- 


er in her pew with the words, * Madam, my Lord is gone,' he cometli 
up to her himselfe, with a smile on^s face, and saythe, low bowing as he 
spoke, * Madam, my Lord is gone.' She takes it for one of the manj 
jests whereof she misses the point ; and 'tis not till we are out of Oharch, 
in y* open air, that she fully comprehends my Lord Chancellor is indeed 
gone, and she hath onlie her Sir Thomas More." 

But we must hasten to the end. Misfortunes thicken, yet amid them 
all, her noble father preserves the same cheerful calm that gladdened his 
happier days. His name is in the bill of attainder. It disturbs him not, 
and he manifests no undue gladness when it is struck out Bat his 
refusal to take the oath which would abjure his faith, seals his fate. He 
is arrested one morning while breakfasting, but succeeds in concealing it 
from his family until evening. Then all is despair, and the past joy is 
followed by a chilling desolation. Poverty begins to threaten them and 
all is gloomy. Margaret visits her father in prison. He is accused of 
misprision of treason. About the same time her child dies. "He's 
gone, my pretty !......slipt through my fingers like a bird I uplifted to his 

own native skies, and yet when as I think on him I cannot choose bat 

weep Such a guileless little lamb ! My Billy-bird ! his mother's owne 

heart They are all wondrous kind to me......" 

*• Spring's come, that brings rejuvenescence to the land, and joy to die 
heart, but it brings none to us, for where hope dieth, joy dieth. But 
patience, soul ; God's yet in the aumry !" 

Her father is arraigned and condemned. As he is led back to the 
Tower after the sentence, she bursts through the guards and embraces 
him, receives his last commands and bids him farewell. He is executed. 

" Alle's over now they've done their worst and yet I live. There 

were women coulde stand aneath y« cross. The Maccabees' mother..^... 
yes, my soul, yes ; I know. Naught but unpardoned sin......The chaiiot 

of Israel." 

She determines to obtain her father's head, exposed according to cus- 
tom upon London Bridge. With the assistance of a " poor faithful fool" 
she effects her plan by stealth. The book closes with the following 
passage, which must conclude our already too extended notice. 

" Flow on, bright, shining Thames. A good, brave man hath walked 
aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and useful, and delight- 
some, as be you, sweet river. And like you, he never murmured ; like 
you, he upbore the weary, and gave drink to the thirsty, and reflected 
heaven in his face. I'll not swell your full current with any more fruit- 
less tears. There's a river whose streams make glad the city of our God. 


He now rests beside it Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this 

spot, upborne on thy gentle tide, will, may be, point this way, and say — 

* There dwelt Sir Thomas More.' But whether they do or not, vox 

populi is a very inconsiderable matter, for the majority are evil, and * the 

people sayd let him be crucified !' Who would live on their breath ? 

They hailed St Paul as Jupiter, and then stoned him and cast him out of 

the city, supposing him to be dead. Their favorite of to-day, may, for 

irhat they care, goe hang himselfe to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it 

must be while the world lasts ; and the very racks and scrues, wherewith 

they aim to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal its power of 

exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance." 

Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium Anglorum optimum. 


iHemorabiUa ^aknsta. 

Thc eDgrossing topics at present are the exercises of Commencement week A 
list of these is given below, although rather late fur the use of the futare tense. 

Crommencement occurs this year on Thursday, 29th inst On Tuesday preceding, 
the Concio ad Clerum will be preached by Rev. Benjamin S. J. Page, of Bridgeport ; 
Bnbject, ** Truth in its relation to the promotion of Holiness" 

On Wednesday, the Phi Beta Kappa Society will hold a meeting for business at 
8 A M., and will assemble in the evening to hear an oration from £. P. Whipple, 
Esq., of Boston, and a poem from Rev. John Pierpont, of Medford, Mass. 

The gefieral meeting of the Alumni will be held at 10 A. M., in the tent in front 
of the Library. 

In the afternoon, the Literary Societies of the College will hold their anniversaiy 
meetings in their respective halls. 

There will be no public exercises this year of the Theological or Law Depart- 

The exercises of the Graduating Class commence on Thursday, at 9 o'clock A M. 
The music will be furnished by Dodworth's Band. 

We hear that a new catalogue of the officers and members of the Phi Beta 
Kappa Society (the Alpha of Connecticut) will be issued soon after Commence- 
ment In this edition the obituary dates of deceased members will be noted, so far 
as ascertained, and an Alphabetical Index will be appended. 


We subjoin a list of the deceased Alumni daring the past Collegiate year. We 
shall see that death is doing its accustomed work. The patriarchs of the institution 
are dropping into the grave full of years and of honors. Ten of this number grad- 
uated previous to the Commencement of the present century. 




Deceased during the Academical year 1851-2 




Date of Death 



Rev. Samuel Nott, 

Franljliu, Ct., 

May 26, 1852. 



Hod. Samuel Woodruff 

Granby, Ct, 

November, 1860. 



Rev. Saul Fowler, 

Southwick, Mo., 

April 20, 1852. 



Rev. Eno8 Bliss, 

Lorrain, N. Y, 

April, 1852. 



Ammi Rogers, 

Milton, N. Y, 

April 10, 1852. 



David Phelps, 

Hancock, N. Y, 

Sept 20, 1851. 



Rev. Ichabod L. Skinner, 

Brooklyn, N. Y., 

January 29, 1862. 



Charles Bostwick, 

Bridgeport, Ct, 

March 1, 1852. 



Rev. Henry Davis, 

Clinton, N. Y., 

March, 1852. 



Rev. Moses Stuart, 

Andover, Mass., 

January 4, 1862. 



Rev. Ohristopher E. Gadsden 

, Charleston, S C, 

June 24, 1852. 



Hon. David Plant, 

Stratford, Ct. 

October 18, 1861. 



Rev. Thomas H. Gallaudet, 

Hartford, Ct. 

Sept 9, 1851. 



Hon. Ebenezer Young, 

Wwit Killingly, Ct. 

August 18, 1861. 



Dr. Timothy J. Gridley, 

Amherst, Mass, 

March 10, 1862. 



Daniel Noyes, 

Andover, Mass, 

April 8, 1852. 



Hon. Isaac T. Preston, 

New Orleans, La., 

July 5, 1852. 



Rev. Ward Stafford, 

Bloomfield, N. J., 

March 26, 1851. 



Josiah Spaulding, Esq., 

St Louis, Mo, 

April 14, 1852. 



Hon. George Winchester, 

Natchez, Miss., 

February, 1861. 



Hon. Frederick Whittlesey, 

Rochester, N. Y, 

Sept 19, 1861. 



Rev. Daniel H. Johnson, 

Mendham, N. J., 

July, 1862. 



Rev. William Croswell, 

Boston, Mass., 

Nov. 19, 1861. 



Francis Griffin, Esq^ 

New York City, 

January 12, 1862. 



Jonathan T. Hudson, 

New York City, 

July, 1852. 



Rev. Chauncey Wilcox, 

Ridgefield, Ct, 

January 31, 1862. 



Rev. William Kirby, 

Jacksonville, IlL, 

Dec 20, 1861. 



Rev. Joseph D. Tyler, 

Stanton, Ya. 

January, 1862. 



John B. Bispham, 

San Francisco, Cal, 

February 24, 1862. 

. 42 


Junius Hall, Esq, 

Boston, Mass., 

August, 1861. 



Lucius H. Woodruff 

Hartford, Ct, 

May, 1852. 



Rev. George Schenck, 

Bedminster, N. J, 

July 7, 1862. 



Frederick P. Bellinger, 

Herkimer, N. T., 

February, 1862. 




St. Louis, Mo, 

January 2 1, 1862. 



Clinton C. Brown, 

Barnwell, S. 0, 

January 29, 1862. 



Horatio W. Brinsmade, 

Troy, N. Y, 

July 26, 1852. 



Emerson C. Whitney, 

Middletown, Ct, 

Nov. 80, 1861. 

852.] editor's tablk. 357 

(!nrttor*0 tabic. 

We are a martyr. We detect a most marvelous resemblance between ourself 
nd the remarkable progenitor — the good, but unfortunately victimized John Rog- 
rs. Our Maga. corresponds charmingly to Mrs. Rogers — dear, good lady. Vari- 
us unlucky productions of ours are the nine children. This identical editor's table 
the remaining one. (We are firmly convinced that our c^ebrated prototype had 
o.) The weather furnishes us with plenty of heat for our purpose, and the print- 
's devil, instead of stirring up the fire, stirs up us. You, kind readers, are the 
urt that have sent us to the stake, which we are at present grasping in agony and 
tin, between the thumb and prime digits of our dexter. We should prefer to do 
super sinister. The heat, other engagements, with various reasons, *' too numer- 
8 to mention," have prevented us from collecting that store of matter which 
ould load our table. We can't tell any good stories; and no one has energy 
oiigh to laligh at them, if we could. Our fare, this time, must exceedingly ro- 
table that set before the guests at Timon's last feast. We promise, however, not 
throw the dishes in your face. 

The minds of the boating portion of the college would seem at present occupied 
th the approaching regatta at Lake Winnipisiogee. It is expected to take place 
iring the first week in vacation. We have the honor to belong to a boat-club, and 
e intend to be on hand. All the clubs but one will prubaMy be represented 
ere. They will stay a week, and hold two regattas. It is probable, also, that 
ir brethren in Harvard may appear ou the ground. It is a good idea, and all 
ticemed, we believe, expect a glorious time. We do not think the pleasures of 
►ating are appreciated in this college, except by the few who have tried it. You 
■ar reader, who are so loud in your scoflfe at the folly of pulling a boat, when 
>vi might as well sail, should try it once, before you condemn it. You should 
tve been with us the other nighty when we went down to the fort, and took that 
orious sea-bath. How it refreshed and strengthened us. How the exercise ben- 
itted us, and what pleasure there was in feeling the boat leap at every stroke, as 
animate, like ourselves, with very exultation. You should have seen, as we did, 
e phosphorescent silver slipping in sheets from the gliding oars, and the diamonds 
Lahing from beneath the bow, while the ripple of the water made music befitting 
e occasion. 

This is the time of examinations, and an anecdote we heard from a graduate of a 
w years' standing may not be malapropos. He had been absent from the whole 
>urse of Geological lectures, but appeared at the time of examination to take his 
irn with the rest. One morning he inquired from his fellows, what they were go- 
ig to be examined on that day. " Chemistry," was the reply. He accordingly 
ppeared at the appointed hour, collecting as much as possible, his scattered and 
sceedingly vague ideas on that very useful science. Soon his name was call d, 
nd he rose, nobly resolved to " do or die." " Of what is the earth principally 
oro posed ?" was the venerable professor's first inquiry. " Oxygen, Sir," was the 
qually prompt reply. " True, true, in an elementary sense," said the professor; 
' but of what material is it formed ?" Our hero, not knowing what else to say, un- 
VOL. xvii. 46 


hesitatingly exclaimed * Quartz," which, to his great surprise, was pronounced cor- 
rect The next question was the Latin for flint-stone, which was answered correct- 
ly, of course. After a few more guesses, which, through the kind assistance of his 
fellows, and his own good fortune, were pretty successful, he was permitted to take 
his scat After the examination was over, one of his companions remarked, '' \V ell. 
Bill, we were examined in Geology, after aU.'* " The deuce, you say I You don't 
mean to say that Fve just been examined in Geology, do you?" ^Certainiv you 
hare," was the reply to his astonished inquiry, and the learned senior was rejoiced 
to find that he was so proficient in a science of which he had foolishly supposed 
himself profoundly ignorant This was in the easy days of old, before the discov- 
ery of biennials. 

We ourselves remember, as no doubt others do, hearing a student reply, in the 
height of his erudition on being asked the number of the graces, that lie thought 
there were *' about three thousand, more or less." " Rather less than more, I be- 
lieve," was the reply of the instructor, as he motioned tlie young classic to his seat 

The year's work is nearly ended, and vacation is coming. Who does not expect 
a happy one ) The commencement is here. The speeches will soon be delivered, 
the sheepskins taken, and a quarter of our number will leave us forever. But the 
rest of us are looking forward to a return here. And all part happily. But 
whether we part to meet again, or not, we wish to each of you, kind readers, a 
merry vacation. 


We have received a ** Morning Song," from " C.*' We can give our readers an 
idea of the performance, without publishing the whole, although it is only four 
stanzas. The fact that morning aud gladness come together, one over the moun- 
tain, and the other over the vale, is startling. This, connected with the announce- 
ment that music is ringing, (the breakfast bell, probably,) and that sunlight is rest- 
ing, at just the time when it should be at work, and the inference from these de- 
yelopments that we should be cheerful, constitute the song ; for which " C." will 
receive our thanks. 


We acknowledge the receipt of Norton's Literary Gazette for July, also of the 
Georgia University Magazine for the same month. We wish our Georgian brothers 
all success in their coiu^e. 


Page 88, last line, for Mdas read Midas. 
** 89, 10th line, for toithotU read mahing. 
** 91, 20th line, for and read as. 
" 247, 7th line from bottom, for smiled read smile. 
*' 248, 11th line, for «ameread strange. 


The Premium for English Composition, established in 1850, 
and placed at the disposal of the Editors of the Yale Literary 
Magazine, is again open for competition. It is a gold medal, of 
the value of twenty-five dollars, to be awarded for the best prose 
article, not exceeding eight pages of the Magazine in length, and 
written by an undergraduate of this College, that shall be offer- 
ed for publication on or before the fifth Wednesday of the first 
term of the collegiate year. There shall be no restriction as to 
subject, any farther than the known character of the Magazine 
requires. The essays sent in for competition must be signed 
with assumed names, and accompanied with sealed letters con- 
taining the true names of the authors ; which, except in the case 
of the successful competitor, shall be returned to the Post Office 
unopened, and inscribed with the assumed names. The prize 
shall be adjudged by an examining committee, to consist, always, 
of the chairman of the board of Editors, and two resident grad- 
uates appointed by the Editors. Should none of the essays be 
deemed worthy of the prize, the Editors shall have the power to 
withhold it, for the time being. 


Chairman of (he Board of JSditort, 
July IGth, 1852.